Winners and Losers
by Bryony
Summary: Trowa Barton, an up and coming architect, finally finds work designing the newest branch of the insanely successful Winner Enterprises Corp. But as he soon discovers, working with its president Quatre Winner, there's something awfully strange going on....
1. Part One

**Winners and Losers**

by Bryony

**Part One**

Trowa Barton had to admit that he hadn't exactly been quite certain what he was expecting when he first walked through the doors of the Winner Enterprises Corporation. He'd heard stories galore, of plush red carpeting and chandeliers, and of Spartan white-washed walls and broken elevators. Either extreme tended to send shivers up and down his spine, and it was therefore with more than just a little trepidation that he shoved his way through the revolving glass doors and into the lobby.

He knew what to expect _there_. He'd never actually been inside before, but there were windows, and as he had eyes and passed by the great multi-story office-building at least once a day, he was fairly well accustomed to seeing the great bustling of people. The noise was something else, though.

People were shouting at each other as if there would be no tomorrow, and much of it was in languages other than English, meaning Trowa understood not a word. It took a few moments for his eardrums to adjust, and when they had he strolled slowly over to the row of receptionists situated along the far wall, doing his best to appear casual.

He chose the least harassed-seeming one and stepped up to her, newspaper clipping in hand. "Um, excuse me," he began, only to be interrupted as the young woman sprang up from her seat and shrieked at him in a _very_ harassed-seeming voice,

"What is it!" The headset perched atop her frazzled mousy-blonde curls slipped off and clattered to the floor. Trowa took a startled step backwards and warily lifted up the newspaper clipping.

"I'm here to apply -- for the job."

The young woman's hand was trembling. Trowa stared at it as she curled it into a fist and carefully thrust it behind her back. "I see," she said, taking a deep, shuddery breath. "Which one?"

"Uh…independent architect. I'm here to see Mr. Winner." The receptionist remained silent. Trowa glanced around to see if anyone else was noticing her strange behavior. No one seemed to. "Could you…_possibly_ tell me where to find his office?"

"Thirteenth floor. Inquire at the desk there for further direction." There was no further response from the young woman and she lowered herself to the floor to retrieve her headset.

"Thank you," Trowa mumbled, and turned away, feeling very disconcerted by the experience. _Lord, I hope not all employees are like that one, or I'm in for it. Maybe I should just go…_

Then the picture of his pigsty apartment flashed up in his mind, and in particular the increasingly large pile of overdue bills sitting on his kitchen table.

…_Or not._

Fresh from grad school, Trowa had had _ideas_ about what he wanted to do with his life. He was going to accomplish great things; become famous; save the world from its own troubled existence. No, he wasn't going to be stuck doing lame circus tricks like his mother and father and sister -- he was going to _make something_ of his life. He was an idealist, a dreamer.

Disaster struck.

Disaster by the nasty name of Unemployment.

Job interviews all over the board and not a single offer. Not one. Not even temporarily. He'd tried every damn architecture firm in the city, no one was hiring. So he decided to try making his own firm, but it turned out you needed money to do that. And money was not something that Trowa had a plentiful amount of.

But there was no way -- no _way_ -- he was going to tell his parents that. After all, he'd begged and pleaded, argued and whined, cajoled and wheedled until his parents had finally agreed to help put him through college and grad school. They'd gone just about bust in the process, and he simply couldn't tell them that now they'd actually agreed to turn him loose on the world that he just couldn't handle it.

The elevator dinged and the door whooshed open. Trowa stepped inside and pushed the 13 button. The door whooshed shut.

For six months now, Trowa had been living on his own, mooching off friends and his sister Catherine for cash. He was determined that this was going to be the end of it. Quatre Winner was damn well going to offer him this job. If he didn't…Trowa didn't know _what_ he'd do, but he was certain it would pretty terrible. Bad enough to get him into the papers, anyway. Maybe even the local news. (Maybe then he'd get some publicity…maybe even a job.)

Dinky elevator music played softly, the same three notes repeating themselves over and over again in different patterns. It was both nerve-grinding and strangely soothing at the same time. Trowa felt himself getting drowsy, and yawned.

The elevator slowed and the door slid open to reveal an empty hallway. Trowa stepped out into it, and the elevator closed behind him. It was eerily silent after the jarring experiences downstairs and the annoying electronic keyboard of the ride up. The only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner. Trowa didn't see any reception desk where he could get directions. _Wouldn't be surprised if there isn't one and that lady just told me there was to blow me off._

Grumbling to himself, Trowa set off down the hallway, determined to find Mr. Winner's office without any help. It felt strangely like a hotel hallway, with doors lining either side of it and standard-issue ratty blue carpet. He jiggled the knob of one such door. Locked, and no sounds from inside. Very weird. Kind of creepy.

_I'm not nervous; I'm not nervous_, Trowa told himself repeatedly, as he continued down the passage. He came to an intersection, and just as he reached it, there was a crash from down the left branch. Trowa jumped at the sudden sound ripping through the silence.

_Notnervousnotnerousnotnervous_, he continued, nervously, in his mind, and turned down the left fork. It was the first sign of life in the place, and it was better than getting lost at any rate. The one floor alone was probably big enough to keep him wandering inside for years, and he'd starve after a few weeks, or die of dehydration after a few days. It might be that no one would even find his body in this maze of a corporation headquarters.

That really wasn't a comforting thought.

_I am so totally calm right now_, Trowa thought. _I'm not _nervous _at all!_

There was another crash, this one closer than the last had been, and it was all Trowa could do to save face and keep from giving a little nervous screech. _Yep, my nerves are totally under control._

Trowa kept walking, and before long, he could hear faint strains of music wafting towards him. The song finished, and a radio announcer's voice could be heard listing the name and album of the artist.

There was a moment of silence as the station was apparently being changed, and then more music. A hideous hip-hoppy sort of thing, and the volume was suddenly turned way up and a voice started to sing along.

Now _this_ was something that Trowa was more accustomed to from his previous interviews. _This_ he could understand and cope with. With much more courage, he continued to the corner, and turning it realized it opened up into an office waiting-area. There in a corner sat a large desk that looked rather as though it had been made out of recycled plastic. A PC sat atop it, as did a small portable radio and a stack of paperwork. A petite blonde woman sat behind it, humming along in time with the radio as well-manicured fingernails tapped at the computer's keyboard.

"Uh, excuse me, miss," Trowa said, walking boldly up to the desk. "Could you point me in the direction of Mr. Winner's office, please?"

The young woman paid him no mind, responding automatically and without any real inflection, "I'm sorry Mr. Winner's in a meeting right now. You'll have to wait." Another resounding crash sounded throughout the tiny space, from behind a heavy door located just a few feet away. Trowa jumped, but the secretary didn't seem to notice, and just continued typing.

"Is _this_ Mr. Winner's office?" Trowa asked, trying to pretend like he hadn't been affected by the noise either.

"Uh-huh."

Trowa glanced around. There were chairs scattered around a coffee-table in the middle of the room. A magazine rack sat inconspicuously in the corner. Trowa headed towards it, but there wasn't much to choose from, just a three-month old edition of some teen magazine and an up-to-date issue of some parenthood rag. Trowa settled for a somewhat ancient issue of _Time_, settled himself, and waited.

Once he got used to hearing the periodic sound of things breaking from behind the thick wooden door, he was actually pretty comfortable. He read about the latest genetic breakthroughs in his magazine and listened to corny music on the radio, and was actually quite disappointed when the door finally opened.

A man clad in gray slacks and blazer accompanied by a navy-blue tie walked out, red-faced and with briefcase and several other props. A Suit. Trowa hated Suits. Buggering annoying people, them. _But_ -- he supposed -- he'd have to get used to them if he was going to be working for one as planned. The man glanced over in his direction and muttered, "Here for the job? Good luck; you'll regret it." Trowa's case of nerves returned full-force.

He took a deep, soothing breath, and was about to get up and enter Mr. Winner's office when Mr. Winner himself came out. Or at least, Trowa assumed it was Mr. Winner, as the previous man had seemed to be alone. The man was surprisingly young, surprisingly handsome, and surprisingly blond. Normally, big-shot office-types had slicked-back jet-black hair or comb-overs. Trowa prepared to get up and introduce himself, but the secretary beat him to it.

"Man here to see you," she said. Not even an encounter with her employer could bring her to raise her eyes from the computer screen.

"Another one?" Mr. Winner turned and caught his eye. "I suppose _you're_ it."

"Uh, yes actually. I'm here about the position in the newspaper. Independent architect." Trowa held out his clipping again, as though it had the power to speak and win the job for him. "I, um, have some…" He stopped talking. No, he didn't. He didn't have any sketches or preparations to show. He'd forgotten his damn briefcase.

_Shit._

He blinked a few times, trying to think of something to say and coming up with nothing. Mr. Winner was giving him a cool perusal, up and down, from his untucked Oxford shirt to his untied brown loafers. Trowa suddenly realized all of his clothes were wrinkled. "Nice jeans," Mr. Winner said. "You've got the job."

The young, handsome, blond president of the most successful company of the world had just hired him, Trowa Barton, young, inexperienced, and unprofessional, to design the newest branch of office buildings the Winner Enterprises Corporation was constructing.

Wow.

Then the president turned around and walked back into his office, closing the door behind him with a loud bang.

"Wait!" Trowa called suddenly, uselessly. "I…um…huh?"

* * *

_Disclaimer: __Gundam Wing_ is not mine. Nor are _Time_ and _The National Enquirer_. This story is not for profit -- please don't sue. 

_Warnings: _AU, OOC, shonen-ai (3+4), highly unrealistic situations and silliness on the part of the writer...

Also, please forgive the formatting - I just can't for the life of me get accustomed to this new system FFN's got...and if that doesn't make me an old fart, I don't know what does (sigh).

Also, also, I hope you're willing to engage in a suspension of disbelief. I try to keep things operating somewhat rationally, but in the end I always end up deciding to screw realism and just tell the storyI want to tell - and if that makes me a bad writer, so be it! I will gladly take criticism however, so toss whatever you've got my way, harsh or not. That is how writers grow, and I think you can even see some of that in this fic, as it's actually taken me something like three years to finish this thing. Because I'm slow. Very very slow. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it; I definitely had fun writing it. :)


	2. Part Two

**Part Two**

"Trowa!" his sister squealed as he walked in the door. "You got the job! That's so _fabulous_!"

That's the funny thing about sisters, especially the older ones -- they all have ESP. Every last one of 'em, no exceptions listed. And Catherine had to be the ringleader of them all with the way she could read Trowa. At least, that was how he figured it, anyway. Before he had even let the trailer door slam shut, Cathy had jumped up from her position on the couch and leaped over to land a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

"Cat…" he groaned, shoving her off. Trowa never had been one for all that touchy-feely goop.

"Well _tell_ me about it! God, Trowa, aren't you excited? This is your first job, now you can pay me back all that cash you stole from me -- don't think I didn't keep track of how much you owe me, buster -- I'll be right back with lemonade and then you're spilling your guts, got me?"

"Yeah, yeah…"

Trowa settled in on the couch while Catherine busied herself in the "kitchen" (really just a curtained off portion of the same room), and noticed among the stacks of catalogs and beauty products on her coffee table the very same outdated edition of _Time_ Magazine that he had been reading in Mr. Winner's office. He couldn't help but grin a little at the coincidence.

"Okay!" Catherine called, emerging from behind the curtains with a tray and two glasses. "But you're going to have to talk fast, Tro, I've got a show in a half hour which I've got to be ready for." She added with a teasing smile, "Not that talking fast'll be hard for _you_, Mr. Talkative."

Trowa's one response was a raised eyebrow which set Catherine laughing and demanding of him, "_See_?"

"Now," she continued upon calming down, "when do you start?"

The smile dropped off of Trowa's face like a stone. "Oh crap," he mumbled into his lemonade.

"_Trowa Barton_, do you mean to tell me that you don't even know when you start work!" Catherine stood glaring down at him, her hands on her hips like a disgruntled policeman. Trowa experienced a sudden flashback to the harassed receptionist in the lobby of Winner Enterprises. "Just how do you expect to survive in the real world if you don't _know_ anything, huh? Tell me _that_!" Trowa remained silent in the face of his sister's wrath until she turned away from him with a disgusted "harrumph" sound.

"I've got to get changed," she sighed, but her cheerful smile was back in place when she turned around again. "Hey, Trowa, do you want to be in the show tonight? For old time's sake? I'm sure Pete'll understand you usurping his position for just one night, and everyone else will be thrilled to see you again. You can sleep here tonight and in the morning you can go and see about this job of yours."

The idea was tempting, but still… "I don't know, Cathy. It's been a while, you know?"

"Oh come on, Trowa! We're only in town for a week you know, and who knows when we'll be back again… I'll make pancakes for breakfast, and tell me honestly, when was the last time _you_ had a home-cooked meal? A good one, that is."

_That_ got him. Trowa nodded his head in quick agreement.

* * *

_Why…or rather _how_, did I ever let myself be talked into this?_ Trowa asked himself, staring at his reflection in the mirror. It was like fourth grade all over again when he had to do this every night, or some horrible nightmare. Puffy green pants, a teensy weensy little shirt, the strangest damn mask he'd ever seen, shoes that pointed upwards like an elf's, and to top it all off there was a pair of suspenders needed to hold the pants up. Yellow suspenders. Bright yellow.

Disgusting.

And then Catherine came in to look him over in her usual figure-hugging getup. "Figures you get the good costume," Trowa told her.

"Quit whining, little brother. You look great. Mom and Dad are so happy you're here again. Brings back old memories, huh?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Oh Trowa, it wasn't that bad, was it?" Catherine stood behind him, gazing wistfully at the reflection of his face.

Quickly, Trowa stuck the half-mask on his head and let his unruly mop of brown hair fall across the other half of his face. He was almost hidden now, from anyone who cared to look for him. "I didn't mean to upset you, Cathy. But I'm glad it's over."

She sighed, and Trowa could see the tears glimmering in her eyes. "You were the only thing that kept me here as long as I stayed, you know."

"Yeah. I know. Come on, huh? Let's knock their socks off. It's a good crowd tonight."

So Trowa followed his sister out into the ring. People in the crowd were screaming and cheering for them. The audience couldn't see them yet, it was still too dark in the tent. The spotlights would come on as soon as the manager announced them. Trowa heard his name being called and felt the heat of the light as it came on. His response system was still tuned in to the performance mechanisms and he automatically bowed low, his hand brushing the curling tip of his left shoe.

A hush came over the crowd as he and Catherine took their positions, him with his back to a thick wooden backdrop, her beside a table piled high with knives.

"Just remember Trowa," she reminded him with a wink, "hold still!" She was referring, of course, to his first performance when he had flinched and almost lost his right ear as a result. Now, almost fifteen years later, he still had the scar.

Then the first knife came whizzing towards him, landing with a thunk next to that same ear. More experienced now, Trowa didn't move an inch, calmly watching as the next two came simultaneously, pinning themselves on either side of his waist. One after the other, knives landed next to his other ear, along his legs, and above and below his arms. The crowd was wild with appreciation by the time Catherine had finished.

Just as he had done for most of his life, Trowa had simply stood still while his older sister threw stuff at him.

He didn't bother to stay and watch the other performances either. He'd seen them all hundreds of thousands of times before, and it got pretty dull after a while. Cathy had other routines to do, so he arranged to meet her back at her trailer afterwards. Took his time getting back, stopping by the lion cages to say hello to Ol' Bozo, who was almost as old as he was and whom he'd taken care of for most of his years with the circus. Then, back at Catherine's trailer, he showered off the sweat of the show, pulled out the foldout bed from the couch, and made a pot of coffee for when Catherine got back.

* * *

Trowa woke up the next morning to the sounds of frying pancake batter and Catherine humming. She poked her head around the curtains when she heard him moving around and cheerfully told him, "Rise and shine sleepyhead. You should've _drank_ some of that coffee you made last night, then maybe you'd have been awake when I got back!"

Whatever, Cathy.

"What time is it?"

"About seven. You've got plenty of time. Do you want bacon or not?"

That early? It was _way_ too early to be awake! How could women always be such morning people? "Yeah."

"All right; hang tight for a few minutes. There are fresh towels in the bathroom if you want to shower and I put your clothes in there too." She disappeared back behind the curtain.

"I showered last night."

"And finished up the last of my shampoo too, I noticed," Cathy huffed. "You're just lucky I'd already bought more. Be quick in there, whatever you do. Breakfast is almost ready."

"Uh-huh." Trowa could practically see her rolling her eyes as he padded into the bathroom. There were his clothes all right, neatly folded and piled next to the sink. Just like Catherine, always freakishly organized when it came to everyone's life but her own.

During breakfast she finally got some answers out of Trowa as to what the interview had been like, and after that there was a much drawn-out goodbye with many tears shed on Catherine's part.

"I'll call you as soon as I get my phone line reconnected," Trowa promised.

"You'd better, Trowa Barton, or I'm coming after you!" Catherine stood in her doorway and watched him leave until he was out of sight.

For Trowa, it was back to the Winner Enterprises building. He shoved his way through the revolving doors with more confidence this time, was expecting the noise that assaulted his ears, and didn't need to ask for directions to Mr. Winner's office. It was nine in the morning, a perfectly reasonable hour to be seeking out a company's head. There were no odd noises to disturb him on his trek down the hall. Trowa was calm, cool, collected.

"Little late, are we?" Trowa jumped. The secretary was staring up at him, an amused smirk crowning her face. For the first time, Trowa noticed the odd fork in her eyebrows and stood gaping at them before jerking himself back to the present.

"What are you talking about? I'm here to see Mr. Winner, is he in?"

"Oh, _sure_," the young woman laughed, "Go right ahead, Mr. Barton; you've already made a _superb_ first day impression."

_Oh Lord…_ Trowa's heart rate was back up again. If only he'd asked _yesterday_ if he was supposed to be doing anything _today_ he wouldn't be having this trouble! He was lucky he'd even shown up at all!

A good point. He decided to roll with it, and forced himself to appear casual and act calm as he walked over to Mr. Winner's door and opened it. But the silence in the office suddenly seemed dangerous; even the annoying tunes on the radio from yesterday would have been a relief.

But when no bombs fell on his head, Trowa did his best to assume he was safe and entered the room fully.

A vase smashed at his feet.

"Jesus!" he yelled and jumped backwards, away from the shards of pottery.

"You're a little late this morning," Mr. Winner's light tenor voice informed him. "I was expecting you over half an hour ago."

_Lock that time in your head, Barton_, Trowa told himself. _You're going to have to remember it._ He glanced upwards, towards Mr. Winner. "Sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

"Oh, for God's sake, don't call me 'sir'. I hired _you_ because if I had to put up with another stuffy-assed nitwit trying to suck up to me I was going to throw a hissy fit myself. Understood?" When Trowa didn't answer, Mr. Winner continued, "In other words, the last thing I want is for you to act like an executive. You're off to a great start."

Well _that_ was certainly unexpected.

"Oh. Um, okay then…so, uh, what _am_ I supposed to call you?"

"Quatre will be fine. Please."

"Sure." Trowa shrugged. "Now may I ask why it is you threw a vase at me?"

"Hey, it got your attention didn't it?" Quatre broke into a broad smile, and despite himself Trowa began feeling a little more at home. "Now, before we get down to work allow me to introduce you to the basics around here."

"Sounds good," Trowa muttered to himself.

"This is, of course, my office." Quatre gestured around the spacious, well-lit room. The entire wall behind Quatre's desk, opposite from where Trowa stood, was made of glass, providing a splendidly high up view of the city street below and buildings across from them. "This is also where _you'll_ be working during your time here. Anything you need either I or one of my staff will be glad to provide for you."

"Sounds _very_ good," Trowa muttered to himself as he followed Quatre to the door.

"This is my secretary, Miss Dorothy Catalonia. I assume you two have already met?"

"It's a pleasure, Mr. Barton." The young woman smiled up at him, but Trowa couldn't help feeling she was toying with him and stared back at her warily.

"Likewise," he finally managed stiffly.

"Dorothy will also be handling any work you have for her."

_Not too shabby._

Quatre was continuing, "You may take your lunch break wherever you choose, either down in the cafeteria which provides meals for all employees cheaply, or out elsewhere. You've got two hours."

_Sweet!_

"And finally, your hours will vary from day to day depending on how much work there is that's possible for you to do here. That includes trips to the construction site, et cetera. Clear?"

"Yes. Very."

"Good. Now if you don't mind I'd like to discuss the project with you." The following consisted of everything Trowa had already known from the advert in the _Times_. Winner Enterprises was expanding (again) and the company headquarters relocating to a different city. It had been in the news for over a month, a huge loss to the city's economy, blah blah blah, Trowa had heard it all before. The only thing that really concerned him was the fact that he was going to be the one designing the new building. And _that_, he thought, was something he could build his career on for some years to come. Quatre intoned about facts such as the virtually _unlimited_ budget, the importance of the project, and after a while Trowa just tried to look interested while his mind zoned off into a daydream about his coming financial independence.

Life was good.

A tiny porcelain figure broke at his feet and Trowa snapped nervously back to attention. "You know," Mr. Winner informed him dryly, "I have the uncanny ability to _know_ when people are no longer paying attention. And, I have excellent aim."

Good to know, that.


	3. Part Three

**Part Three**

The next three or four weeks passed in a blur. Trowa got used to the buzz of the lobby and the odd silence of the upper floors. He even grew accustomed to the stressed out habits of the receptionists and secretaries of the building. Dorothy seemed to be the only normal one, and even she creeped Trowa out sometimes with that piercing, almost predatory, stare of hers. She had a frightful sarcastic streak, but her intelligence shocked him. She was far from being the usual ditzy blonde he'd encountered from his numerous other interviews. Oh sure, she still bobbed her head in time to the music playing on her portable radio and wore the latest trends in miniskirts and high-heels, and Trowa certainly caught her touching up her makeup often enough, but she knew _everything_. Trowa was both amazed and confused as to how it was she had ended up as a simple clerk when it was clear that she ought to have been anything she could have dreamt up.

But such is life and Trowa got over it. Life passed quite happily for him, as for once he was actually able to pay his bills on time and even got past most of his debts. At any rate, there weren't creditors or the landlord banging on his door every other night.

Even Mr. Winner -- or Quatre, as he preferred to be called -- wasn't so bad once Trowa got used to him. Not that he'd had much choice in the matter seeing as he was using the man's office. But unlike the impression he'd floated the first couple of times Trowa had met with him, he was actually quite a nice guy. The sort of guy you'd expect to find handing out lollipops to kids in the park for no reason except that it was a nice day outside. He smiled a lot. And, Trowa had to admit it, the man was _hot_.

Catherine had wasted no time in ringing him up in the middle of the night to inform him of the fact herself when she'd seen a magazine spread on him and the company featured in some business magazine.

"What?" Trowa had groggily mumbled into the phone.

"Trowa do you realize that the man you're working for just happens to be one of the sexiest men in this country?"

"It's two o'clock. In the morning," Trowa had informed her.

"Whoops, I forgot the time difference! Sorry Trowa, it's only eleven here and we just got done with the last show. But do you understand the importance of this fact? Trowa he's _single_!"

Trowa blinked to clear out the remaining fuzzies in his brain. "…Are you trying to set me up with my _boss_?" he'd demanded. "How do you even know he's _gay_?"

"Trowa, please. He hasn't got a wife or a girlfriend and so far as the rest of the world knows _never has_! Plus, do you know how many sisters he's got? It says it all right here in front of me, in black and white, honey."

"Goodnight, Cathy."

"Trowa -!" He hung up the phone, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

Being gay was actually what had gotten him into his last dispute with his father and solidified Trowa's decision to leave the circus and pursue the career he wanted. Fortunately, Cathy had gotten her own trailer by that point so he'd been able to move in with her and they'd been able to work together to convince their parents to send Trowa off to college. The distance had cooled down Trowa's father and he'd gotten used to the fact that his son was never going to be what he'd originally hoped, and while he'd _never_ like the fact, at least he wasn't going to hold a grudge about it.

By now, things had settled down in Trowa's life for the most part, and he was relieved about that. Sadly, he was made to realize as he entered his second month of steady work, that things like that could never last long. It was 9:00 a.m. on his thirty-eighth day at the Winner Enterprises Corporation when Trowa realized that _something_ was wrong.

8:30 -- Trowa arrived at the office. Quatre was already there, as he always was, sitting with his feet up on his desk and trying to balance a pencil on the tip of his index finger. A neat pile of paperwork sat unattended on his desk. All was normal.

8:45 -- Trowa was putting the finishing touches on some prints. "Those look good," Quatre said from behind him. All continued to be normal.

8:55 -- A Suit showed up. A Black Suit, the very worst kind as far as Trowa was concerned. The kind he had expected to be working for. Dorothy showed him in and Quatre motioned Trowa to the door. Normalcy continued with only a very minor interruption.

8:59 -- Still nothing heard from inside Quatre's office. Normalcy was running headfirst into oncoming traffic.

9:00 -- Trowa realized something was very, very wrong. In the space of five minutes there had been no noise from Quatre's office while there was a Suit inside. Nothing had been broken. There was no crashing of glass or pottery. There was no sound of paper being torn up or thrown in the air. Normalcy had been hit by a speeding 16-wheeler. Something was horribly wrong. There was only the pulse of Dorothy's music to keep Trowa from running back inside to see what the matter was. He glanced over to see what Dorothy's reaction was; surely this would have her spooked as well. But she just sat there, calmly humming along to the song and typing something up, seemingly oblivious.

Trowa couldn't help it. He demanded, "Do you know what's going on in there?"

Dorothy glanced coolly up at him. "Me, Mr. Barton?" she replied, teasingly lifting an eyebrow. "Whyever should _I_ know what occurs during a private meeting within the confines of Mr. Winner's office, hmm?" Chuckling, she shook her head, setting her blonde weave dancing before she went back to typing.

A couple of seconds later the Suit stepped out of the room and calmly straightened his tie, piercing Trowa with his large cobalt eyes. Wordless, he stepped aside and motioned Trowa to the door before taking his leave. Perhaps all normalcy needed to return to normal from here was mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Trowa stepped back into Quatre's office, hoping to be able to revive the situation. Quatre was seated calmly at his desk, bent over some paperwork. Trowa remembered regretfully that he had _never_ been a lifeguard. Normalcy had just passed beyond the reach of _any_ help.

* * *

"Trowa are you worried about your boss? That cutie-pie?" 

"I don't have time for this, Catherine…"

"Oh come on, what am I supposed to do, just let you wither away without a love life until you're eighty and no one in their right mind would want to go out with you?"

Trowa could have come back with a barb of his own but deemed it untactful, and so refrained from mentioning Tony, his sister's runaway husband. "Come on, Cat, just help me out here; it's really weird."

"Look sweetie, what do you want me to tell you? 'Oh of _course_ there's some sort of evil plot going on against your boss, and that freaky guy in the office today is the ringleader of it all!'"

"I don't think you understand the significance of what I'm telling you…"

"You said he was working when you went back in the office -- isn't that what company presidents are _supposed_ to do?" There was a hint of aggravation in Cathy's voice now.

With a sigh, Trowa informed her, "Not _this_ one." and hung up.

* * *

Saturday. Ahh, Saturday, the day waited for by lazybones everywhere, hailed as the day when everyone can sleep in until noon. It was seven o'clock in the morning and Trowa was awake. Maybe it had something to do with the sunlight that was creeping in his window through the blinds he had forgotten to shut. Or maybe it was the suffocatingly large pile of junk on top of his bed, crushing his legs. Perhaps the reason lay in the dream he'd been having. 

Then again, it could be that god-awful racket coming from outside his apartment. Trowa blinked the sleep from his eyes and went to check it out, not really giving a flip that he was wearing only a pair of flannel boxers and an undershirt. Someone was disturbing his well-earned rest, and damn it all, that person was going to pay.

Trowa flung open his apartment door and came face-to-face with a large cardboard box. It shifted a little and Trowa was surprised to see staggering along underneath it a young woman about his age, her blonde hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail and her blue eyes round beneath her neatly chopped bangs.

"Let me help you with that," he said.

"Huh?" she asked, struggling to see him around the cardboard bulk. Trowa lifted it easily out of her arms and heard the clang of pots and pans as they settled against each other inside. "Oh, thank you. One second, my apartment's right over here…somewhere." Trowa waited as she caught her breath and fumbled with her key. It looked like someone was finally filling the vacancy next door to him.

"Here, I'll take that back from you," the young woman said as she managed to break through the lock and open the door. Flipping the light switch with her elbow, she managed to make her way into the kitchen and let the crate drop with a bang on top of the counter. She let out a sigh of relief, and turning back to Trowa said again, "Thank you. My name's Relena, by the way -- Relena Dorlian." The name sounded familiar, but he shrugged it off.

"Trowa Barton," he replied. After a pause, "Pleased to meet you."

Relena crossed over to him to shake hands, adding to her introduction, "I'm sorry if I woke you…"

Forgetting his anger, Trowa shrugged. "Everyone has to wake up sometime," he said. For some reason, he was never capable of staying mad at a woman for more than a couple of minutes, at least not ones who reminded him of his sister, as this one, with her easy smile, certainly did.

"Well true though that may be, some might prefer it to not be so early in the morning," she laughed.

"Are you planning on trying to move in all on your own?"

"Oh, no. The movers brought most of the stuff in last week, all that's left is what would fit in my car. My brother ought to be here shortly to help me finish bringing everything up -- I just wanted to get a head start is all."

Knowing his conscience would beat him up if he ignored it, Trowa offered to help carry up the remaining boxes. Relena's response was a laughing, "I'd appreciate that, but don't you think you had better get dressed first?"

* * *

There was an early-September chill in the air on Sunday morning. Trowa's biceps were sore from carrying boxes yesterday morning and he cursed his kind heart for making him do it. Relena had turned out to be nice enough, perfectly good neighbor material. It had turned out that her brother Milliardo's (or Zechs, as he liked to be called) fiancée was an acquaintance of Quatre's, and indeed the Dorlian and Winner families had been friends for years. Small world, Trowa reflected. And Trowa had figured out why Relena's name had sounded familiar -- her father had been the city's mayor for several terms before eventually resigning the position in favor of pursuing other activities. Now he acted as an ambassador to several European and north African countries. Relena was back in the city only temporarily, to finish up her education before joining her father in the political ranks. (Zechs, as it turned out, was only Relena's stepbrother, from her mother's first marriage, and the 'rebel' of the family. Trowa hadn't found out what it was that Zechs did for a living, but he _did_ enviously note the man's snazzy motorbike.) 

Now Trowa was enjoying the remainder of his weekend break. Monday brought the promise of another day's hard labor, back to daily grind. Although, actually, this Monday was different, and Trowa knew it. Tomorrow Quatre had planned for them to take their first trip out to survey the construction site. Building wouldn't be underway for several months more, not until all the designs and models that preceded it were complete. Before that was to occur, however, Mr. Winner had thought it would be beneficial for the designer to view the chosen site firsthand and get a feel for the terrain, to make the building all the more suitable to its environment. The idea, Quatre had so eloquently pointed out, was not to try and ram cement blocks down Mother Nature's throat, but to work with her in such a way that she could still survive afterwards.

Trowa began wondering just how deep into Hickville they were going to be traveling after hearing those words.

Wherever it was, he hoped that he wouldn't need his jacket. He was almost tempted to whip it out for his trek through the park, but had decided that with the sunshine it would be warm enough, and he proved to be right. Trowa was quite enjoying himself too -- until he noticed a familiar body over by the duck pond, mere feet away. Quatre Winner.

What should he do? Run? Hide? Try and sneak away? Maybe he ought to…

"Trowa!"

…say hello.

Blinking like an owl caught in a searchlight, Trowa walked uncertainly toward the blond. "Hello." This was _not_ a situation Trowa had been prepared to face! Bosses in the workplace, that was one thing, but seeing Quatre outside of the office building wasn't exactly something Trowa had ever handled before. Dangerous territory, it was; he had to tread carefully. Quatre, for his part, seemed delighted to see him and handed Trowa a slice of bread.

"What's this for?" Trowa asked blankly, staring at it.

"We're standing in front of a pond full of ducks; use your imagination," Quatre chuckled. He ripped off a piece of his own slice and tossed it into the water, where it was immediately squabbled over by several greedy mallards.

It wasn't every day you got to see one of the richest (and sexiest, Trowa couldn't help but remember) men in the country stand around and feed ducks, Trowa reflected. There was something very unusual about this Winner man.

That is, _aside_ from the wealth, position, and physical beauty.


	4. Part Four

**Part Four**

Late. How in the hell could he be so late? On one of the more important days of his job -- actually, he reflected, on _all_ of the important days of his job -- he somehow managed to be _late_! Be it sheer stupidity or alarm trouble, the cause didn't matter, only that Goddamn end result!

Trowa dashed around his apartment, searching for sketches, briefcase, camera, pants before he finally made it out and was instead dashing down the sidewalk toward the office, trying to avoid pedestrians and speeding bicycles.

When he arrived, Quatre was standing patiently outside the building, waiting for him. "You look like you just ran a marathon," he commented with a somewhat lopsided smile. Trowa gasped like a fish out of water in reply. "Anyway," Quatre continued, "the limo's broken down again for the fifth time this week so we have to walk to the airport."

Trowa could feel his legs giving way beneath him. Quatre laughed at the expression on his face. "Only kidding," Trowa was assured. "I called a cab. It ought to be here in a few minutes; sit down and catch your breath." Quatre relieved him of his various odds and ends and gestured to the raised stone framework around the several trees planted at the front of the building. Trowa slumped down and stared up into the interlacing branches. They were half dead from malnutrition.

"So I'm not late?" he asked once recovered.

"Oh you're late all right," Quatre told him casually, and then shrugged. "Doesn't really matter to me though; it's not like your job is to be on time."

"Oh." Trowa paused to let that sink in. "Then why'd you throw that vase at me my first day?"

"Ah _that's_ what you're worried about. I just do that for first impressions. There's not really a whole lot that I can do for fun anymore; I've got to take what opportunities come my way." He chuckled, but Trowa caught the hint of sadness in the sound before the loud squeal of tires braking cut it off.

"Don't tell me _this_ is our cab," Trowa muttered before standing up to retake some of his things.

The passenger side window rolled down and a young man's face stuck out. "You two the guys headed for the airport?" he demanded, and Quatre nodded in affirmation.

"That's us. Thanks for picking us up on such short notice."

"No prob. You want the trunk for your junk? It's a little jammed but a good whack or two ought to get it open for ya."

"You know, I think we're fine, actually," Trowa said, clinging a little bit more tightly to his supplies.

"Well, suit yourselves. Hop on in back."

No sooner had they done so than their driver ripped away from the curb, dodging along through the different lanes of traffic with ease, though not exactly to the comfort of his passengers.

"So where're you flying to?" he asked conversationally. Trowa was too busy fumbling with his seatbelt to answer, so Quatre answered.

"Over to just south of Chicago."

"Yeah? What's that, a three hour flight? Four?"

"Four and a half, I believe."

"I've never been to Chicago. I'm a Philly native, myself; this is the farthest I've ever been away from home. How is it?"

"Not bad, I suppose. We're going out to survey a construction site." How Quatre could be so at ease Trowa had no idea. He'd never liked taking taxis, or even driving at all, really. There had to be room, had to be space in which to breathe. He wasn't claustrophobic, he just didn't like cars. Motorcycles were much more his style, not that he had anywhere near enough cash to afford one.

"Yeah? Say…haven't I seen you somewhere before? You've been in the paper haven't you?"

"Not recently, no."

Trowa almost had his belt figured out, but then they turned suddenly, and he lost the attachment again. "Damn," he hissed. "Quatre, gimme a hand -- hold this, would you?" He handed his boss the stack of papers he'd been trying to keep out of his way as he wrangled with the harness.

"Quatre? Quatre Winner? Owner of the Winner Corporation? No way!"

"And CEO," Quatre added quietly. "Yeah, that's me. And you are?"

"Oh I'm Duo, Duo Maxwell. So that means _you_ must be Trowa Barton!" the driver said triumphantly, glancing in the rearview mirror at Trowa's face. "Pleased to meet you both."

"Er, yeah." Trowa paused suddenly in his plight as that sank in. "How'd you know?" he demanded.

"I was just reading about you two!" Duo fumbled in the front seat for a second, then tossed back to them a rolled up edition of a newspaper. He snickered for a minute, finally adding, "Getting it on outside the office, huh?"

Quatre's head snapped up nervously and he snatched the paper from where it had landed on the floor. As he unfolded it he mumbled to Trowa, "The papers haven't done a story on me in months…" Trowa halted his fight with the seatbelt completely, leaning forward to catch the headline.

"_The National Enquirer_!" Quatre suddenly screeched, looking rather as though his heart had just exploded in his chest cavity. An odd, airless gasping sound was somehow emitting from his throat, and he tilted the paper so that Trowa could see.

There, right smack in the middle of the front page, was a large, imposing photograph of him and Quatre standing together in the park.

_A Secret Rendez-Vous_, the headlines blazed.

Trowa's jaw dropped.

It was, he reflected some moments later, the sort of thing that one sees in the movies, someone's jaw dropping. But there it was, he had done it. Of course, seeing oneself with one's boss while being accused of having a love-affair with him also tends to be the sort of thing found primarily in films, so perhaps that had something to do with the reason his mouth had fallen open. He hoped so, because Trowa didn't normally fancy himself the sort of person to go around slack-jawed every time something vaguely shocking occurred.

Okay, so this was more than just a _little_ shocking, but still…

"They were _spying_ on us?" he asked incredulously of no one, before realizing that that was a rather incriminating sort of thing to say. It might lead people to conclude that he and Quatre _were_ in fact involved. "What I mean is, uh…" Trowa didn't actually know _what_ he meant, so he trailed off just there. No one was listening to him anyway; Duo was gauging their reactions in the rear-view mirror and Quatre was absorbed in reading the article. Every so often a rather rude, un-Quatre-like comment would escape his lips.

"How the hell can they _print_ this crap?" he demanded when he'd finished, looking up as though either Duo or Trowa would be able to provide him with the answer.

"I _knew_ I'd known you two from somewhere," Duo chuckled, shaking his head

"This is going to be all over the city -- worse, all over the _country_," Quatre groaned. "Everyone's going to be pouncing on it like it's some bloody slab of meat! The gossip columns are going to be full of it for _weeks_!"

The cab slowed for a light just then, and Trowa suddenly remembered his seatbelt and managed to get it buckled up. _Finally_, he thought. He gently tugged the paper free from Quatre and began skimming the article for himself. He noted several rather vulgar connotations, but the most disturbing thing was that he found himself not particularly disturbed by them.

Trowa glanced up just in time to see the light change to green and brace himself for the takeoff. What he wasn't prepared for was the car he suddenly noticed hurtling towards them from down the right fork of the intersection they had stopped at.

Duo noticed at just the same time and swerved violently to avoid the collision. Not quickly enough, however. "Son of a bi-" was all he got out before the oncoming car smashed into them.

The impact crunched into the passenger side of the car, buckling the two side doors inwards. Trowa faintly heard the sound of breaking glass on top of all the other roars and screeching. He was already being flung sideways, and he tried to maneuver himself to go more quickly to get away from the squealing metal of the door and the other car. He landed on top of something soft, and recognized from some detached portion of his brain that it was Quatre. The rest of him wasn't registering anything, not even fear or pain. In the space of two seconds this had happened.

Just before he passed out he noticed one other thing -- they were still moving.

* * *

He awoke stretched out on warm asphalt. There was a high-pitched humming all around him, and Trowa wondered what it was. The asphalt hurt him, there was something digging into his back. That was the sky above him, but it had a strange pinkish hue to it, unlike anything Trowa had ever seen before. He blinked some blood out of his eyes and the normal blue shade he was used to was restored.

_Where's Quatre?_ he wondered. Then he wondered why he couldn't feel any of his limbs.

The humming was becoming more distinct and he recognized it as human voices. They separated until he could understand the different tones of different people, and could even pick out some of their words.

He tried to sit up. Immediately, he was pushed back down again, by a young woman with dark blonde hair tugged into two twists which fell down her front. "An ambulance will be here soon," she told him, enunciating every word as though she were talking to a retarded person. Trowa was vaguely annoyed by the treatment. "You have multiple lacerations, and I suspect a concussion. There's a rather large piece of metal embedded in your calf and several smaller pieces of glass as well."

That didn't sound too good, he thought mildly. _It'll probably start to hurt in a few minutes._

As though the thought were a trigger, there was a twinge in his left leg, followed by a great roar in his head. He almost passed out again as the pain started coming at him in waves, but the woman stopped him, none too gently either, with a slap across his cheek.

"Whatever you do, you can't go back to sleep. I know you must be exhausted but if you have a concussion you've got to stay awake!"

"You don't beat around the bush much, do you?" Trowa demanded roughly, the first he managed to speak.

"You're very lucky to be alive," she told him with faint smile. "The driver of the other car wasn't so lucky."

"And Quatre?"

"So far as I can tell Mr. Winner will be fine. He too has mild lacerations, but your side of the car was the one hit. When you landed on him you shielded him from most of the damage. The cab driver ought to be okay too. He's got a broken wrist and probably whiplash."

"Who are you, anyway?"

"My name is Sally Po; I'm with the police department. I saw the accident happen on my way to work, so I thought I probably ought to lend a hand. They give all emergency workers basic medical training nowadays, you know." She winked at him, then looked upwards, sighing in relief. Sirens were wailing in closer, and within moments the ambulance had arrived.

The paramedics began loading him onto a stretcher. Nausea hit him with the movement, and for a second Trowa thought he might embarrass himself by puking all over his front. Fortunately, the medics had come prepared and he got a little bowl to empty his stomach into instead while they finished loading him onto the ambulance. To his surprise, Sally climbed in after him.

"What're you doing?" he demanded, struggling to stay alert.

She shrugged. "There's something fishy going on," she replied, unable to contain a smirk as she pulled the cliché. Nevertheless, her eyes remained serious.

"Where're the others?"

"Use your brain, buddy. There's more than one ambulance, you know."

Trowa was starting to like this Sally woman. She rode with him to the hospital, all the while asking questions ranging between his name and the date to exactly what had happened before the accident. Trowa wasn't sure if she was trying to gather clues or keep him awake or figure out his state of health. Perhaps it was a combination of all three. The ambulance men meanwhile were pumping him full of painkillers and starting to disinfect his wounds. Every so often one of them would throw in a question too.

All in all, it was a long ride.


	5. Part Five

**Part Five**

After reaching the hospital and being thoroughly poked and prodded and pumped with anesthetics and examined to the doctors' content, Trowa was once again allowed to go to sleep.

When he woke up again, he was in an uncomfortable bed and staring up at a tiled ceiling. The sterile hospital scent pervaded his nostrils. Apparently the pieces of shrapnel embedded in his leg had been dealt with accordingly, because he could feel the thick bandages from his knee down.

Other than the massive headache and remaining grogginess from being drugged, Trowa felt fine, not at all how he would have expected to feel after being involved in a car wreck. He moved the blankets off his legs and moved to stand up.

"Doctor said you shouldn't be up quite yet," a voice said dully from the other side of the room. Surprised, Trowa turned to where Quatre was seated with his feet propped up on the windowsill.

"Screw the doctor; I have to pee," Trowa replied, and stood up. Just as he expected, his legs (even his injured one) were perfectly capable of supporting him. The room spun for a minute or two, but he quickly acclimated. "Where's the bathroom, do you know?"

Quatre turned to look at him for the first time, his blue eyes glittering oddly in the bright lights. Trowa thought he looked rather as though he had been crying. "Down the hall to the left. Are you really going to go dressed like that?"

Trowa took due note of the hospital gown he was wearing and shrugged. "Well I don't exactly have any clothes to put on in here."

Quatre nodded towards the foot of his bed. "They're right there."

_Ah. Well, now that you've made a complete ninny of yourself Barton, you can get dressed_, Trowa told himself, hoping that the uncomfortable heat rising up in his cheeks wasn't a blush. "So they are," he mumbled and, taking them up, turned to start hopping into them. And after disposing of the paper excuse for pajamas, he went in search of the lavatories with only a slight limp.

Upon his return to the room, Quatre was still seated in the same chair by the window, and his legs were still propped upon the sill. However, now he was hunched over so that his hand could cover his face, and his shoulders were shuddering slightly.

"Quatre?" Trowa asked softly, a little unnerved. "Are you, um, all right?"

When there was no answer, he moved tentatively closer, inching his way along until he was just to behind his boss. "Quatre?" The young man wasn't crying as Trowa had first feared: there was no hint of his breath hitching or wetness on his hand.

Trowa was really starting to regret coming back into the room. Why, why, _why_ was he being forced into dealing with a situation like _this_ one? Did employees often have to interact with their employers in such a way, because suddenly even the circus was starting to look appealing. Trowa had little to no experience with offering people comfort -- on the whole he preferred leaving others (and being left) alone to work through things. There were fewer distractions all 'round that way.

He wanted to kick something, but instead, grimacing a little as he did so, Trowa reached out his hand and settled it on Quatre's shoulder.

The effort was in vain, for no sooner had Trowa made contact than Quatre spun away, leaping up to face him as he went. "My God, Trowa," he said loudly, "I've never been more frightened in my life."

Trowa repeated the words that he had been saying to himself for as far back as he could remember. "You shouldn't fear death." His father had told him that the night of Trowa's fateful first performance, while he had again been in the hospital, lying, for all he knew, on the very same bed that he had been that morning.

Quatre's hands clenched at his sides, and he experimentally lifted them a few times. Trowa wondered if the young man was planning to punch him. "I wasn't," he said finally, faltering after the second word. "I wasn't frightened for _myself_!"

Hmm. A bit unexpected, that was, but Trowa could deal. All he had to do was think on his feet -- he was good at that. Or at least he _was_, until Quatre's hands came up to grip his arms, his bony fingers biting deep into Trowa's skin. His stare was frightfully intense, and equally unreadable as he said firmly, "I was frightened for _you_."

Trowa found himself at a very definite loss for words at that point, and wondered if there were any romantic implications in the statement. The nurse who barged into the room just then apparently thought there were, because as soon as she caught sight of them her eyes widened and a high-pitched squeak emitted from her lips before she turned and fled again. Quatre released him and turned back to the window.

"It's my own damn fault," he mumbled cryptically, "I wouldn't listen…"

* * *

The accident was on the news that night when Trowa draped himself across the sofa to watch it. The article on him and Quatre was also mentioned. Trowa grimaced at the recollection of Quatre's face when he first saw it. He looked…horrified.

But then at the hospital…

_Quit thinking things that aren't true for Chrissakes_, Trowa told himself with an angry shake of his head. Romantic implications his foot! Like Quatre Winner, practically a zillionaire, would ever fall for, well, _him_. And that wasn't even going into the fact that _of course_ Trowa felt nothing for him anyway. So there shouldn't be anything to worry about then.

_Nope. Nothing at all._

A quiet tap at his door interrupted him from his thoughts, and Trowa left the television to go and answer it -- more than thoroughly disgusted by the fact that his initial reaction was to wonder whether it was Quatre.

It wasn't, anyway.

"Oh. Hi, Relena."

"I - I just heard about the accident on TV," she said breathlessly. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, just a little scratched up. Minor concussion." He shrugged. "I've had worse." There was a little awkward pause after he stopped talking, Relena apparently unsure of how to respond. "Um…would you like to come in?" he asked, stepping aside to give her room to enter.

"Thanks, but…I really just popped by to see how you were doing." But she came in anyway. Trowa thought she looked lonely and offered her a cup of coffee, which Relena gratefully accepted.

"Let me make it," she said, "I mean, you've obviously had a pretty rough day…"

"No, I'll do it -- you're my guest, after all." Actually, Trowa was just possessive of his coffee grinder, but he thought the guest idea was a pretty good excuse.

So he and Relena stayed up late and chatted, interrupted only once by a phone call from Catherine.

"_Trowa Barton why the hell didn't you call me, huh_!" she demanded as soon as he picked up. "You let me find out through the _news_ that my one and only baby brother's had a near death experience!"

"Gee Cathy, it's nice to hear from you too…" Before she could start talking again, Trowa swiftly added, "And it was hardly a near death experience." He mouthed over to Relena, _It's my sister_, and she gave a knowing nod and a sympathetic smile before settling back in her chair to watch.

"Well, Trowa? I'm waiting for my answer."

"Look Cathy, this isn't the best time, okay? I've got company."

Catherine suddenly gasped, and asked, "Is it _him_? I saw the papers too, you know!"

"Nooo, it's not. Can we _please_ have this conversation some other time?"

"You're attracted to him, aren't you?" She was teasing him now, Trowa could hear her voice lifting up higher into its registers, away from anger. "I can tell, little bro -- now whatever happened to that level of professionalism I thought you were trying to maintain, hmm?"

"Cather_ine_…"

She laughed. "I'll call you tomorrow. Ta-ta darling, postcard's in the mail."

"Bye," Trowa muttered gloomily and hung up.

"OPSS, huh?" Relena asked. Trowa stared at her blankly until she clarified, "Over-Protective Sibling Syndrome."

Almost despite himself, Trowa chuckled. "I take it you know the feeling."

"Oh, entirely too well," she affirmed, sharing his amusement.

* * *

"Trowa… I didn't expect you to be in today," Quatre said, looking up as said man stepped inside the office.

"Didn't you? Well, here I am." Trowa dropped his briefcase on the floor next to his desk and it was soon followed by his jacket, that draped over the back of his chair. He noticed the nervous look on Quatre's face and followed his eyes to the clock. "That's, um, not a problem is it?"

"No, of course not, if you're feeling up to it after yesterday -"

"You're here," Trowa pointed out.

"It's just that I scheduled an appointment for today, thinking that you wouldn't be here," said Quatre, ignoring Trowa's comment. The time ticked to 8:30 and the door swung open. Dorothy stepped inside, followed by her long sweep of fair hair, which in turn was followed by a Chinese man, dressed simply in a pair of tan slacks and a black Oxford shirt, his equally dark hair pulled back from his face in a short ponytail.

"Chang Wufei to see you, Mr. Winner," Dorothy yawned and quickly exited again.

"Hullo Wufei," Quatre greeted him warmly. "Punctual as always, I see."

"Quatre." Wufei nodded before gesturing towards Trowa. "I thought you said that we would be alone."

"Yes, we were just discussing that." Clearing his throat, Quatre turned once again towards him, reddening slightly as he said, "Trowa, I don't know how long this is going to take, but would you mind leaving us? Perhaps Dorothy could find you somewhere to work in the time being, or you could go out somewhere."

"Oh. Sure."

Trowa picked up his jacket from his chair and his briefcase from the floor and crossed the room. He had to admit, this wasn't exactly what he'd been expecting -- Wufei certainly wasn't anyone from the office, not if he was dressed like _that_, and he couldn't for the life of him think why he'd be there. He received a partial answer on his way out the door. Just before it clicked shut behind him, he heard Wufei say, "Let's get right down to business -- what the _hell_ happened yesterday?"

Trowa dumped his briefcase on one of the chairs in the waiting area just outside. Dorothy was already back at her desk, her neatly manicured fingernails clacking against the keyboard of her computer. "I'll be back in a couple of hours," he told her, and she fixed him with a lazy look that said more plainly than words ever could, _Do you really think I care?_

He didn't bother to say anything more and strolled out, pulling his jacket on as he went.

* * *

The police station. Why he'd ended up there, Trowa didn't quite know. He'd started off going down the street to get a cup of coffee, and maybe a donut, but after that he'd just drifted -- until he'd ended up here, outside of the police station.

He trotted up the steps and inside, feeling eerily reminded of his interview at Winner Enterprises. And of course, he finally realized, that was in fact the entire reason he was there.

"Can I help you?" a young man just inside asked warily, peering at Trowa over his wire-rimmed specs.

"Yeah, I'm looking for Sally Po; she works here, right?"

"Yup. Just through those double doors over there. Big row of desks. You'll see her."

"Thanks."

Trowa stopped a moment to admire the structure of the station, peering up to look at the beautifully domed ceiling. Maybe he could do something like this for the lobby of the new Winner building. Then, through the double doors; big row of desks…

More like _fifty_ big rows of desks! Aw, crap, how was he going to find her in all these people…?

"Trowa Barton! What on earth are you doing here? Last I saw you, you were passed out on a hospital bed." Aha. There she was, standing up from her chair and strolling over to meet him.

"Actually I was here to find you," Trowa said, a little sheepishly.

"Well it looks like I beat you to it." She smiled and reached out to shake his hand. "So what can I do for you, hmm?" she asked as she led him back over towards her desk.

"Yesterday you said that -"

"That I didn't like the looks of that accident. Right. I still don't. You were wondering what I meant?"

"Yeah. I'd like to know what's going on. There's just…a lot of strange stuff going on, I guess."

"Involving Mr. Winner?" Trowa nodded. "Crap…I was afraid of that…" She smiled wryly and picked up a folder from her desk, handing it to Trowa. Inside were several photos of the accident site, the two cars, even the driver of the other car. Trowa flinched as the first of that lot came into view, not expecting the gruesome image. The man's body was, there was no other way to describe it, mangled beyond recognition.

"Not exactly pretty, is it?"

"That's putting it lightly."

"Why don't you sit down?" Sally suggested, spinning up a swivel chair from one of her coworkers' desks. "Look, Trowa, there's no easy way to say this, but I think that the accident yesterday _wasn't_ an accident, okay?"

"Go on."

"I did some research yesterday after leaving you all in the hospital. Plenty of people saw that other car, and it wasn't in the lane of traffic; it didn't run a red light by mistake. It was _waiting_, and I can only guess for your cab."

Trowa tried to think of something to say, but nothing was coming to mind. So he just sat there silently, waiting for Sally to continue.

"I'd like to talk to Mr. Winner," she said finally, and Trowa slowly nodded.


	6. Part Six

**Part Six**

When he wasn't on the receiving end of them, Trowa realized that Quatre's meetings were actually quite good fun to watch. Sally introduced herself as the woman at the crash site yesterday and politely informed Quatre that she was on the police force and had decided to investigate further into the accident -- "As there seems to be a rather large possibility that you were _targeted_ for some reason," she explained.

"I see," Quatre answered slowly. The index finger of his left hand began drumming against his desk, and he calmly leaned back in his chair, waiting for Sally to continue.

"As I've already told Mr. Barton, according to several witnesses it appears that the car which hit you was, as opposed to being in traffic, _parked_ until your cab…" She trailed off as Quatre casually slid a stack of papers off his desk.

"Yes?" he asked, surveying her coolly. "Until my cab what?"

Shrugging off the incident, Sally went on. "Until your cab started moving again after the light change. The timing was perfect, as was -" The crash of pottery breaking interrupted her; the mug filled with pencils that Quatre kept on his desk having crashed to the floor and shattered. Sally lifted a brow in confusion, darting a glance back at Trowa before continuing again. "As I was saying, the timing was perfect, as was the death of the other driver."

"That's very interesting, Ms. Po," Quatre murmured, standing up, "but I must say that I fail to see how it all pertains to me."

"Do you? Mr. Winner -"

"Quatre."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Quatre! _Quatre_! My - name - is - _Quatre_!" he proclaimed, spinning to his right to stroll to a shelf on the other side of the room, which just so happened, Trowa noted, to contain several rather eclectic pieces of ceramic art. The blond selected one, giving it a quick polish on his sleeve before holding it up for display. "I got this in India three years ago," he explained, "Apparently it's some ancient relic from a volcano." It was tossed with startling force at the ground about six inches away from Sally's toes.

Sally cleared her throat, once again glancing behind her to Trowa. He shrugged, halfway indicating that this was normal and halfway letting her know that she was on her own. He almost wished he had some popcorn…

"Mr. Winner -- or Quatre if you prefer -- the point of the matter is that you were purposely sought out and attacked by someone. Someone who, I may add, could try again. I'm here because it's my job to not only offer you protection but to try and find out who this person is. I can't do that without your cooperation. I hope I make myself clear."

There was a quick succession of three pots hitting the floor and breaking before Quatre stopped moving, a china dish grasped in both his hands. He moved back over to Sally, stopping directly in front of her. "Well, Ms. Po, I thank you and your fellow officers for your concern, but I hope that I too make myself clear when I say that you have anything _but_ my cooperation." The dish dropped to the floor. "Now if you will please excuse me I have work to be doing." He smiled politely and returned to his desk without another word.

"Hmm." Sally turned to the door, quickly saying, "Trowa, could I speak to you for a moment please?" He glanced towards Quatre, who gestured him to the door where Sally waited.

Out in the hall and away from Dorothy (whose prying ears Trowa didn't trust), Sally demanded, "Does he _normally_ behave like that, or was it just me?"

Trowa shrugged. "You get used to it."

"Uh-huh. Interesting though that is," Sally laughed, "it seems rather obvious that I certainly can't count on him to help me out with this case. So, can I count on you?"

Trowa blinked.

"Look, whoever's behind this whole thing, they'll go after Mr. Winner again unless we get to them first. This last was a warning more than anything else; it was so perfectly executed that if killing Mr. Winner was what they were planning on it would've happened. Instead, it was done so that their own man died, and you all survived. "Basically, Trowa, what it all boils down to is whether or not you care enough about your boss to help him."

"Use that speech often?" he teased.

"I'm serious, Mr. Barton. Are you going to help me or not?"

Trowa sobered quickly, and nodded. "I'll help," he said.

Sally's face softened into a smile. "Great!" she exclaimed. "And usually I do actually give that speech at _least_ once a week, because as you've just proven, ninety percent of the time it works. Thanks."

Trowa was struck dumb, and he gaped at her to prove it. Sally only chuckled a little at his expression before moving on to ask, "So what can you tell me?"

Trowa thought for a moment, and suddenly remembered the Chinese man who had come to the office that morning. "Chang Wufei. He was here earlier, and it looked like he came to talk to Quatre about the accident."

"Sounds good. I'll be in touch; we can discuss things in more detail then. Thanks for your help."

"Er…no problem, I guess," Trowa muttered, still nursing a spot of wounded pride.

About to step back into Mr. Winner's office, Trowa felt more as though he were walking onto the set of an old mafia movie. The feeling hadn't been alleviated any by Dorothy's snickers as he'd crossed the waiting area; apparently she had a pretty good idea about what had taken place in Quatre's office, and was, in her own way, letting him know that he was screwed.

There were little pieces of broken pottery on the floor -- and Trowa sure didn't envy the janitors who would have to try and get those shards out of the carpet. But it was the eerie calm that was radiating from his boss that added most to the movie-like atmosphere.

Trowa could tell he was in for it. _Really_ in for it.

He almost winced, thinking about how his résumé would read after being fired. Ouch. Former circus performer and fired by the most prestigious company in town. Yeah, that would help the employment situation.

And he hadn't even done anything all that bad, for crying out loud! And, damn it all, he was tired of being in the dark about all of Quatre's weird quirks! The least his boss could do was keep him informed!

And, oh God, he was starting to move…

"Trowa," Quatre began, his voice inhumanly smooth as he stood up from his swivel-chair and walked toward him, "I have one thing to say to you."

_Here it comes_, Trowa braced himself. _He's going to do it; he's going to fire me… Why is it always the ones who seem so nice who are the most evil when they're angry?_ "What's that, sir?" he asked, and upon seeing the glint in blond's eye quickly amended that to, "Mr. Winner." And that quickly changed to, "Um…Quatre."

"No police."

That was it?

"No police?" Trowa repeated blankly.

Quatre lifted an eyebrow. "That _is_ what I said. I will not have any police officers in this building. Understood?"

Trowa paused a second for that to sink in. So he wasn't fired then? "Yeah, sure thing. No cops. Got it." And even though he _knew_ he should have stopped there, something -- perhaps the heady daze of relief -- caused him to continue on and ask, "How come?"

_Moron_, he berated himself.

Something was stirring in the depths of Quatre's eyes which Trowa didn't like the looks of. "I don't approve of the way this country's law-enforcement system works," he finally answered, somewhat evasively.

At one with his stupidity, and fueled by his earlier sense of outrage, Trowa forged ahead with his protest. "But you heard what Sally Po said about the crash yesterday -- someone could be after you Quatre! The police are offering you protection, are you really just going to throw your safety away by not cooperating with them? I thought you'd be smarter than that."

* * *

"You attacked your boss's intelligence, Trowa?"

"Well…yeah."

"And he didn't get mad?"

"I know…it's weird."

"Oh, I don't know about _that_. I think he likes you too." Catherine sighed dreamily. "My brother and his millionaire boss. That's so romantic, don't you think so Trowa?"

"Not really, no. I think you're just trying to put me with this guy because he's rich, Cathy."

"Ugh, Trowa, how can you accuse me of something like that! I would never do that to you! But it's so obvious you like him, and my God, how long has it been since you went out with someone, huh?"

"You're _not_ going to give me _that_ lecture again. I'm sick and tired of discussing my love life with you, okay?"

"Fine," Cathy sighed. "But I notice you're no longer denying that you have a crush on him…" Trowa clenched his teeth and remained silent, hoping he'd get his point across _that_ way. And, fortunately, he seemed to, because Catherine continued, "So why were you insulting your boss to his face anyway? That's not at all like you Trowa."

Figures they'd come to that eventually, and just when Trowa _least_ wanted to talk about it. Catherine noted his hesitation and pressed harder, a note of warning rising into her voice as she demanded, "Trowa?"

_Straightforward is best_, Trowa told himself. _Calm and rational_, he decided.

"The police have decided to investigate the accident yesterday. They think someone might be after Quatre."

The confession was met with silence on the other end of the line.

"They…what?" Catherine finally said.

Calmly, Trowa repeated it for her. He also added, "Quatre refused to be involved in the investigation."

A pause, and then faintly, "He…what?"

All in all, Trowa thought his sister took it rather well.

* * *

Trowa Barton decided the next morning that he was incapable of having a single normal day's work while employed by Quatre Winner. For some reason -- he knew not what it was -- strange things just had the tendency to _happen_ around that man. Trowa still had yet to work out whether or not that was a bad thing. But regardless of that, he decided on early Wednesday morning, September the twenty-second, that he was simply going to have to resign himself to the unexpected and learn to live with it.

After all, he'd survived his sister's knife-throwing act; surely he'd be able to survive his job.

Dorothy Catalonia swept through the door. Most people walk -- Dorothy swept. And she did not look happy about the fact. With a somewhat disdainful sniff to whoever was behind her, she explained to Mr. Winner that, "There's some man here to see you, _claiming_ he has urgent business to discuss."

"Oh?" Quatre looked vaguely curious. "I don't recall having any appointments scheduled for today…"

"That's because I didn't make one." The unmistakable voice was followed by the equally unmistakable braid and cocky grin of, of all people, the cab driver from the other day. "I find it's usually more helpful if I drop in unannounced."

"Huh…so I see." Was that amusement in Quatre's voice? "Well, come in."

He certainly needn't have asked twice. The young man was already strolling in, going past Dorothy with a slight leer (to which her response was to indignantly sweep back out of the office again and shut the door with a fairly loud bang) and over to Quatre's desk.

Trowa noted the slimly-fitted black cast wrapped snugly around the guy's left wrist.

"So what can I do for you, Mr.…Maxwell was it?"

"Yeah. Maxwell. Duo Maxwell to be exact. I thought you'd like to know that because of that dead asshole's stunt on Monday morning I got fired."

Trowa was almost unable to suppress a snicker, thinking to himself, _With driving like that, buddy, you should've been fired a long time ago…_ Quatre shot a glance in his direction, effectively silencing whatever sound _had_ managed to escape Trowa's lips.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Oh come on, Winner, don't give _me_ that smooth-talking business crap," Duo snorted. "I suppose you're gonna ask what the hell I want you to do about it, huh? No one at that fucking cab company except my girlfriend believes that accident wasn't my fault -- what do you _think_ I want you to do about it?"

"Ah, well if that's your only problem I'll gladly go down with you to the company right now and clear up the matter. You'll have your job back in no time flat."

Quatre was already starting to stand up when Duo interrupted with, "_That_'s not what I want." And there Quatre paused, a smile starting to spread across his face, which, incidentally, confused Trowa to no end. "Please," Duo informed them disgustedly, "Only a jackass would want to work as a freaking cab driver. Not my kind-a lifestyle."

Quatre was practically _glowing_ with anticipation now, and Trowa started to wonder if he should call for help in case the man had gone nuts. "So?" he prompted.

"I want a job all right, but I want it _here_."

Quatre sank back with a satisfied look that said, _Right on target_.

"Very admirable, Duo," he said with a warm smile. "However, I can't exactly go around randomly hiring people off the street you know."

"I'm on my way to completing a degree in business. I was driving taxis to pay my way through school. Not everyone's rich and famous like you, you know."

"Perfect!" Quatre said brightly. "I like your attitude, Duo, not to mention your determination. You've got yourself a job."

As the conversation drifted on towards the discussion of things such as position, hours, and wages, Trowa found that all he was really capable of doing was staring on in bewilderment.

He noted to himself, _Still quite a ways to go before being resigned to the unexpected._


	7. Part Seven

**Part Seven**

The hum of the microwave as Trowa nuked himself a TV dinner was a poor substitute for the noises he had grown accustomed to over the years. Without really looking at them, having noted all the details time and again before now, Trowa flipped through several sets of photographs.

One group detailed the setting of the construction site. These he had set aside long ago having dismissed them as unhelpful. Quatre had, upon the purchase of the property, been provided with scale drawings of the land and even a model, which he had in turn passed along to Trowa to aid him with his preliminary designs. All the pictures were good for was showing off the scenic surrounds, for the lot was located several miles from Chicago's city limits in an otherwise undeveloped area.

Trowa couldn't help but feel a bit guilty about disturbing that scenery, having always been a bit of a nature lover at heart. Therefore, everything he'd produced so far had a fairly environmental feel to it, his way of minimizing the damage, so to speak, which Quatre had whole-heartedly agreed with.

The second collection was more disturbing, images that Sally Po had provided him with of the crash site. There, in all its gruesome, bloody glory on the paper was the L-shaped wreck. The photos of the dead man's body were not included, as certain files in reference to the 'case' were for police eyes only. Trowa dismissed the idea with a huff, finding the reasoning behind that ridiculous. Nevertheless, if he squinted carefully he could still make out the blur of the guy's body slumped over the wheel.

He tossed that stack down on the floor beside the sofa he was sprawled on as well. Despite the fact that he'd stared at the pictures for what felt like hours, Trowa still felt certain there was something in them that he wasn't seeing. Disgusted, he gave up for the time being and focused his attention back on the last bunch of photographs.

The circus.

He didn't get far into them, though, before the microwave beeped, signaling the fact that his meal was cooked. _Hell of a time_, he grumbled to himself. _Finally get to what I want to look at and I get interrupted. Figures._

And no sooner had Trowa finished eating and sat back down to the photos again than did he face another interruption, this one by means of the telephone. Definitely not his night.

"Hello?" he demanded grouchily into the mouthpiece, half expecting it to be telemarketers, which would _really_ put a damper on his night.

Instead, a voice demanded right back at him, "Trowa?"

"Yeah. Who is this?"

"It's Sally Po. Look, I'm really sorry to be calling so late, but there's something I'd like to discuss with you. In person if that's possible."

"Tonight?" he asked in surprise.

"If it's not too inconvenient, yes. Look, there's a coffee place not too far from the station; we could meet there if you know it. Do you?"

"Yeah. What time should I be there?"

"Well, right now would be good actually…"

Trowa heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes.

* * *

If it was a ten minute stroll to the Winner Enterprises building, it was a twenty minute jog to the cafe-bar-coffeehouse hybrid Sally wanted to meet him at. A tacky neon sign hung in the window, half the letters having fizzled out over time. It was not a particularly welcoming looking place, and Trowa could think of absolutely no reason why Sally would have wanted to meet with him _here_.

It was, however, the only place serving coffee in the vicinity of the station, so she couldn't possibly have meant anywhere else. And, in fact, there she was, only half-discernible through the dark halo of cigarette smoke that floated around the room. She seemed comfortable enough in the environment, too, leaning back in her seat and lazily swirling around whatever was in her cup before taking a sip.

Trowa felt halfway guilty for agreeing to meet her here, entirely too aware of Quatre's adamant refusal to even talk to the police. Nevertheless, he figured, if the blond was unwilling to help himself, someone had to do it for him. Maybe Catherine was right, but Trowa just didn't like the idea of something horrible happening to his boss because he too had chosen to be stubborn about protecting him.

So he slipped into the seat across from Sally, waiting.

"Glad you could make it," she said, and surveying him critically asked, "Did you _run_ all the way here?" Trowa shrugged in reply, and tried to hide the fact that he was still a little short of breath.

"So why did you want to meet with me here anyway?" he demanded.

It was Sally's turn to shrug. "I needed a break from my computer screen," she said. "But seeing as this place is right across the street we can get back there quickly if need be. Hungry?"

"I ate." Not that _what_ he'd eaten had been all that appetizing, but hey, it was still a meal. As a rule, he didn't eat cheap restaurant food -- it was way too greasy for Trowa's tastes. "What's this about now, Sally?"

"Mmm…" She stared down at her drink, running her index finger absently along the rim of her glass. "Chang Wufei, that's what you told me that guy's name was, right?" Trowa nodded.

"And you're positive that you've got it right?"

"Of course." He couldn't help but be a little offended that Sally would doubt his word.

As if reading his mind, Sally assured him, "It's okay, I believe you. It's just that I've run a search on that name and nothing's come up on the guy."

"Nothing?"

"Not a drop."

"So he hasn't done anything wrong then, right?"

"It's more than that, Trowa," Sally told him with a bit of a wry smile. "You see, for all intents and purposes, Chang Wufei does not exist."

Trowa blinked. Sally continued, "I'm afraid we can't know whether he's done anything wrong or not if there aren't any records of him to be found."

"And you're sure there's…nothing."

"I've checked everywhere -- police files, hospital records, phone books… If Chang Wufei is indeed the name of the man who was meeting Quatre, it's either an assumed name, which I believe is most likely, or someone _highly_, highly skilled has erased all record of him from the planet. Either way, it makes for some very interesting circumstances, don't you agree?"

A little too stunned to say anything, Trowa just nodded, absently. A drink was starting to sound like a pretty good idea… He hailed a waitress and ordered a glass of scotch.

"Nothing…" he muttered again, still struggling to get his mind around it all. _Huh._

His drink arrived, and he chugged it before shoving the glass aside.

Sally watched him with raised brows. "So," she finally said, "I might be able to get someone with more tech skills to help us out with Mr. Chang. In the meantime, do you have anything else to keep me occupied with?"

Trowa shook his head bleakly. "Do you know anything about the driver of the other car yet?" he asked.

"As a matter of fact, I do. He was a fairly young man, twenty-eight years old. Named Lawrence Mueller -- he was in the army up until two years ago when they kicked him out for drug abuse and misconduct. Punk kid on all accounts. Then six months ago it seems he suddenly vanished for several weeks, and when he showed up again he'd cleaned up his act. No one knows where the hell he was during that time though."

_This is nuts_, Trowa gloomily decided. "Why do we keep running into dead ends?" he groaned.

Sally snickered. "Welcome to the life of a cop, Trowa. It's not nearly as glam as some people might think -- half the time in high crime areas like this you just can't solve a case and it gets dumped after the first couple of weeks."

"Is that going to happen with this one?" Trowa asked, feeling a little bit of anxiety start to pump through his alcohol-induced warmth.

"Probably not." Sally shrugged. "Quatre's a pretty high-profile person after all."

"Okay…Well, okay. What about the cab driver?"

"Ah, now _he_'s a tricky bastard. Harmless from what I've been able to pin down on him, but I haven't been able to get in touch with him. The cab company fired him apparently."

Trowa snorted and leaned back in his chair before ordering another drink. "Yeah," he said. "I know. He stopped by today, in search of employment."

"Oh?" Sally leaned forward, her interest piqued.

"Quatre hired him."

* * *

When Trowa stumbled homeward again, there was no denying, not even by him, that he was drunk. Especially not when he reeled over towards one of the gutters lining the streets and puked. Okay, yeah, he admitted it, he was _really_ drunk.

"Hey man, you okay?"

Trowa ran his sleeve across his mouth and peered up, up, up into the darkness, and when he caught sight of the concerned set of eyes peering down at him he blinked in recognition. "Say, I know you," he said, way too loudly for the comfort of even his own ears. "I was just talking about you!" For some reason that struck him as funny, and he began sniggering to himself, while Duo lifted a brow, hunching down on the ground next to him.

"Is that so?" he said, looking Trowa carefully up and down. "Well, pal, why don't you tell me about it on the way home, huh? You can crash at my place tonight, it's right nearby."

It was probably a mistake on Duo's part to say something like that, because tell him about it Trowa did. He started with Sally's phone call, skipped to the fact that he thought Duo's braid made him look feminine, went on to his conversation with Sally at the bar concerning Duo and Quatre, doubled back to what an awful driver Duo was, and finally finished up with how he'd refused Sally's invitation to drive him home in favor of getting incredibly wasted instead.

Duo's response was a skeptical, "Uh-huh" and a warning against messing up his living room carpet.

And that was about when Trowa decided that it was high time to pass out.

* * *

_Oh_ and _fuck_ were the first things to run through Trowa's mind when he woke up the next morning, hung over but mercifully sober. The scent of frying bacon was what had dragged him back to his senses, but the last thing he wanted right then was food.

He wanted to know that he hadn't really blabbed everything to Duo last night while in a drunken stupor. He wanted to be home in his apartment, conked out on his bed, not on an uncomfortable sofa. And most importantly, he wanted this entire nightmarish experience to be over.

"Well, well, well; good morning, sunshine," an obnoxiously loud voice intoned from above -- Duo, of course.

Trowa sat up and regretted it, swallowing against the wave of nausea that passed over him. He twisted his head to see Duo, who was smirking down at him from just behind the couch. The tiny kitchen was just beyond, evidently just where he had come from, seeing as he was carrying a frying pan in one hand, laden high with sizzling meat.

"Um…hi," was the best Trowa could manage.

"Not a morning person, huh?" Duo was headed back towards the kitchen, and when he arrived back it was with a plate and fork. Easing himself down onto a chair across from Trowa, he began picking at his breakfast. "I'd offer you some," he explained, "but somehow I don't think it'd stay down. Anyway, I'll spare you the idle chit-chat of my normal morning routine and hand the mic over to you."

Had he been supposed to understand any of that?

"Sorry, run that by me again?"

"Last night," Duo explained patiently around a mouthful of egg. "You were a little -- how shall I put this politely? -- _incoherent_…but whatever the hell you were trying to say to me sounded kind of interesting, especially seeing as it was apparently about me and all. Care to elaborate?"

"Oh. Not particularly."

"Yeah? So I guess that means it can't be anything good, huh? Look, I'm gonna get it out of you eventually, so you really might as well just fess up."

It wasn't exactly a threat, but it also wasn't exactly letting him off the hook either. And Trowa's brain was really rather far from functioning at 100 -- in other words, utterly incapable at that moment of thinking up a believable excuse in under five seconds. He grimaced, wishing there were some way out of this. After all, he hadn't even any idea whether he could trust this guy. So he opted for what he liked to call _evasive tactics_.

"How's your wrist?" he asked.

Duo lifted his hand and waggled his fingers at him through the black-coated plaster. "Not bad. I'm on painkillers for another week or so, so I can't really feel anything at the moment. But getting back on topic, you were saying…?"

"Um…" Exactly how much had he blabbed, anyway? He couldn't even remember! And his mind was still fuzzy too. _Damn it._

"Does it have to do with the crash?"

_Holy cow; this guy's good…_ And before he really thought about it, Trowa demanded, "How'd you know that?" and could have clamped his hands down right over his mouth after he'd said it.

A grin spread across Duo's face. "Well there's a little thing we business majors practice called _bluffing_. So spill."

"Okay, fine!" Trowa was tired of keeping this all to himself. Sally just wasn't enough and Cathy was too far away for comfort. "The cops are thinking there's something more to the crash than just some guy running a light, and they've been trying to find you to ask you some stuff…I don't know, it's really weird, but somehow I got roped into agreeing to help them, but Quatre, who of course the whole damn thing is about, refuses to. If you ask me, it's all just one enormous mess."

Duo blinked. "Huh," he managed. "That's uh…interesting." The two of them sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes while Duo thought that over, and then he finally asked, "So why didn't they just talk to me if they wanted to so bad?"

Trowa shrugged. "They couldn't find you." He snickered then, realizing that Duo had basically been put down on the suspects list because of that one fact. "I guess Sally just wasn't looking hard enough. Maybe you should go down to the station at some point and talk to them."

Duo nodded thoughtfully. "I might just do that," he mused. "I think I'll have some questions for them myself."


	8. Part Eight

**Part Eight**

Trowa didn't generally think of himself as a _jealous_ sort of man, but lately he had been forced to keep reminding himself of the fact. Somehow, somewhere along the line, Duo and Quatre had managed to hit it off. Trowa was a little less than overjoyed (which, incidentally, in turn thrilled his sister to no end). It wasn't that he had a _problem_, per se, with his boss making friends with people -- and he didn't really have a problem with Duo either, disregarding that ingratiatingly cheerful yet intelligent-to-the-point-of-anal-retentive personality…and that awful braid…and the flippant way he treated everything Trowa took seriously…and everything else he had that made Trowa feel hopelessly inadequate.

Oh, damn it all to hell, he was jealous. Jealous of Duo, jealous of his and Quatre's easy friendship, just plain old, green-in-the-face envious. At least Duo had a girlfriend, he didn't have _that_ to add to his troubles.

But what Trowa _did_ have on his list of worries was quite large enough without anything extra to add. After all, it wasn't like he could exactly go up to Quatre, his boss, and casually inquire, "By the bye, Mr. Winner, you don't happen to be _gay_, do you!"

Um, no, definitely not. And that was just assuming he'd be able to get the words out. Another problem on his ever-increasing list -- as things between Quatre and him developed nowhere except in his over-active imagination, it was getting harder and harder for Trowa to force himself to interact with the company head except on matters of the construction. And it had never exactly been _easy _to begin with.

So what was he left with? Well, as far as Trowa was really concerned, jack-diddly-squat. His only "refuge" of sorts was found in the idea that he was acting as some sort of silent protector, by keeping an eye out for his boss. A "Whoever it was that set up that crash might try again, don't you know" sort of deal. But a month-and-a-half, not even counting the week Trowa and Quatre had spent out at the construction site, had ticked by already and nothing had happened. No leads, no headway, no nothing, especially as Duo had gone down and had that chat with Sally as he'd promised he would. Sally's supervisor, a tornado of a woman by the name of Une, was just about ready to dismiss the crash as a one-time, failed, murder attempt. Sally on the other hand was less than convinced and maintained that it was no accident that the two cars had collided with a precision that killed only the driver of the offending car -- and therefore a warning that the actual attempt was still to come.

Well whatever, Ms. Po, with nothing coming up to prove otherwise it was getting increasingly difficult for Trowa to justify his role in things as anything other than spying.

"Fuck."

In the silence that had descended over the office in the past couple of hours, even Quatre's whispered tones carried easily over the still air to Trowa's ears, and he roused himself from his thoughts suddenly enough to take note of the fact that he hadn't done any work for fifteen minutes and to glance up at Mr. Winner with inquiring eyes in just under two seconds.

"Anything wrong?" he asked.

The effect of his words was the same as Quatre's had had on him. The blond jolted in his chair at the sound of another, unexpected, voice, and raised his head suddenly from the scrap of paper in his hand to stare at him. He pasted a smile on his face which was wholly unconvincing, especially as Trowa was able to read the upset in his eyes, and said, "No. No, of course not."

Quatre cleared his throat and stared back down at what he held in his hand, the smile dropping away again. Then, becoming aware of Trowa's presence again, he busied himself with a great show of organizing his desk, shuffling papers and opening and closing drawers, including one that needed a key to be opened. Trowa was sure not to remove his eyes from the spectacle until Quatre had finished and stood up, a false bright smile stretching across his face again. Voice tight, he informed Trowa with an over-extended cheer, "Well! I'm going to lunch. See you soon."

_Lunch?_ Trowa glanced wonderingly at the clock over the door. _It's not even eleven o'clock!_

"Right…" he remembered and quickly acknowledged, but Quatre was out the door. Before the heavy thing swung shut altogether though, Trowa spied him stopping by his secretary's desk, and overheard him asking, in no tone similar to the one he had just used in the office,

"Dorothy, could I have a word with you, please…?"

Trowa quickly picked up his pencil and bent over his sketches and blueprints and made especially certain to look particularly industrious for the next fifteen minutes, until he was sure that Quatre really had gone out and wasn't going to change his mind and come barging back in again. Then, trying to merge his curiosity with a keen sense of duty, Trowa got up and darted across the room to Quatre's desk.

It was messier than usual, due to Mr. Winner's abrupt decision to look busy, with little sheaves of paper covered in numbers strewn across the top, but shoved into one corner, still in a fairly neat pile -- as though Quatre hadn't wanted to disturb them -- was a bunch of envelopes.

_His mail for the day_, Trowa realized -- or for yesterday, as today's likely hadn't come yet. He lifted the stack to look at them more closely. Only the top one had been opened, and the contents had been removed for there was nothing remaining inside. Trowa flipped it back over, and realized that nor was there a return address or a stamp. It hadn't been mailed then, but dropped off.

"Huh…"

Trowa dropped the stack back where he had found it and began looking for what may have been the letter in the mysterious envelope. He didn't have any success, though, not until he came to the locked drawer. He recalled where he had seen Quatre put the key, however, and drew it out of its little hiding space, nestled in a nearly flat, round box in the back of the drawer above. Even unlocked it was difficult to open the drawer, until Trowa gave it a terrific yank and it slowly gave in, wood rasping against wood as it ground against the insides of the desk. But there Trowa discovered what he'd been looking for. Even if it wasn't the letter that had come from the envelope, Trowa was certain it was what Quatre had been looking at.

It had been done, from what he knew of such things from movies and television serials, in the usual style, the large block print letters cut out from newspapers and magazines and then pasted onto the paper to form an untraceable array of sources.

HELLO MR WINNER  
I WANT MY RETRIBUTION OR I WANT MY $$$  
YOU KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN IF YOU DON'T  
DO YOU KNOW WHO  
GOOD LUCK

"Holy shit…" Trowa breathed, half in awe. "Quatre's being blackmailed."

Un-be-lievable.

It made sense though…kind of. At least it explained the accident -- Sally could very well be right about it being a warning of sorts. Cash or this will happen for real. But what it didn't explain was who…or why…or how, which was what Trowa assumed was needed even more than evidence.

He would have continued his explorations of the desk, and particularly the drawer, in case it could turn up something more conclusive, but there was suddenly a knock on the door, and he had to hurriedly fumble everything back into its place and slam the drawer shut again. But as he shoved it closed, he noticed a strange scent in the air, something vaguely familiar, but nothing he could place, especially as he scrambled away from Quatre's desk to tentatively open the door when no one else seemed about to.

It was Duo.

"What are you doing here?" Trowa demanded before he could check himself, and more rudely than he'd intended.

"Why, hello to you too!" the young man snorted as he walked inside. "Is Quatre here? We were gonna have lunch today -- I was going to introduce him to Hilde."

Trowa peeked outside into the waiting area as he responded, "No, he left about eleven…" Dorothy still hadn't returned. Trowa wondered if she was still with Quatre -- he noted the time: 11:55. They'd been gone for just over an hour already. Maybe he should start getting worried?

"Oh. Well do you know when he'll be getting back?"

Trowa shrugged, not letting his face stray beyond neutral. Feeling guilty, however, when a faintly hurt frown crossed Duo's face, he protested on Quatre's behalf, "I'm sure he wouldn't skip out on you if it weren't important…and he seemed rather preoccupied when he left."

There. Not too bad a save, he felt -- it didn't reveal too much, but nor did it make it seem as though Trowa were keeping secrets, so everyone comes out looking good, so long as Duo keeps his mouth shut and doesn't ask questions…doesn't ask questions…doesn't ask…

"Preoccupied?"

"Yeah. Preoccupied." Trowa began chewing on the inside of his cheek to remind himself to stay calm. He just didn't want Duo to get involved, that wasn't so bad, was it?

"About what?"

Trowa shrugged.

Duo 'humphed' quietly to himself and said, "Well whenever he gets back let him know I was here, all right Tro? And tell him if I'm not back yet he still ought to be able to catch up with me and Hilde at the restaurant."

Trowa smiled a little in relief. "Sure thing."

* * *

Quatre returned later that afternoon, but his secretary did not. He offered no explanations for his long absence, which was all right because Trowa didn't need any to understand (or at least he didn't think he did, which was of course something quite different). He also appeared too distracted to realize that anyone had sifted through his desk, which Trowa was understandably relieved about. He dutifully delivered the message Duo had left with him, and tried to act as normal as possible for the rest of the day, just to make sure he didn't attract any attention. But on his way home from work that day, he stopped by the police station to let Sally know about the letter.

Dorothy was also not in the next day, but Quatre appeared in much better spirits and informed Trowa casually that he had given Dorothy the rest of the week off for "personal reasons". Trowa accepted the news with a raised eyebrow -- in the time he'd known her for, Dorothy had somehow managed to build herself up as some sort of infallible enigma who chose, for some inexplicable reason, to remain comfortably (or not, as the case may merit) situated as Quatre Winner's receptionist. The idea that she could have some sort of problem that required her taking a week off from work seemed irreconcilable with this notion, and Trowa's mind drifted back --

_"Dorothy, could I have a word with you, please…?"_

-- could it be possible?

_Could_ it?

Trowa was careful to watch the interactions between Quatre and Dorothy very carefully after she started coming to work again, but found that they continued in just the fashion that they always did -- and certainly no mention was made of The Incident, as Trowa had come to call it, last week. He didn't even dare to confide his suspicions in Sally, as circumstantial as they all were, but he couldn't help but feed them with his innate dislike of the young woman. There was something so insidious, so _ingratiating_ about her that Trowa didn't think he'd be at all surprised to find out that she was Quatre's blackmailer, and she certainly had enough access to him for it to work…

And then it finally came, his proof positive.

8:34 a.m. was the time, on Thursday the nineteenth of December, as Trowa walked past Dorothy's desk. She was holding up a perfume bottle, and dabbing a little behind her ears and on her wrists, humming softly. The fragrance drifted slowly across the room, and reached him just as he was about to grab the doorknob to Quatre's office. There was a succession of virtual lightning strikes in Trowa's brain.

That smell --

-- the missing piece --

-- the letter --

-- that smell --

-- Dorothy's perfume --

-- _Dorothy!_

He froze, fingers resting lightly on the cold metal of the knob, and stole a glance back at where Dorothy was sitting. She caught sight of him and lifted a split brow, coldly asking, "Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Barton, or do you have another reason for staring at me like that?"

He flinched inwardly at the discovery and snapped quickly, "No. No reason at all. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable; sorry."

Proof positive. Trowa couldn't get the thought of it out of his head all day, but now that he had it nor was he quite certain what he wanted to do with it.

Of course, he _should_ have gone directly to the police and let them deal with it from there. But something -- some instinct; some stupid reaction to his feelings of uselessness, or some desire to protect, or prove himself -- _something_ caused him to forget what he _should_ have done and caused him to remain glued to his chair in Quatre's office, until long after he normally would have gone home. Until Dorothy came in and announced her own departure.

Then, with an elaborate display of casualness Trowa leaned back in his chair, stretching and looking toward the clock all in one go. "Christ, is it really that late?" he wondered aloud, noting the position of the hour and minute hands over the six and twelve, respectively. "I think I'll head home too."

"See you tomorrow, then," Quatre responded absently. "Have a good night."

"Yes. Yes, you too." Trowa swallowed as he shrugged into his coat, unhappy with the awkward intonation of his words and the knowledge that he had no way of changing them for the better.

No matter though -- he was off and out the door, trailing quickly after Miss Dorothy Catalonia. She beat him to the elevators, but he got in the next one over, and when it came to a halt at the bottom, he was just in time to see her strolling towards the doors, already halfway across the lobby.

He caught up with her at the bus stop, but common sense prevented him from staying too close to her and also from getting on the same vehicle. But he instead managed to hail a cab. Then the debonair, James Bond-ish feeling he'd had while trailing Dorothy out of the building suddenly wore off, and Trowa was left feeling a bit foolish, sitting alone in the back seat of a yellow taxi. But he'd started this, and now he was going to finish it.

"This might sound a bit stupid," he told the driver, "but I need you to follow that bus."

The driver, who was foreign and seemed to have enough trouble simply understanding Trowa's request (much less his reasons for making it) only shrugged and pulled smoothly away from the curb in hot pursuit.

Trowa leaned attentively over his knees and peered doggedly out the front window, taking careful note of the journey. He hoped it wouldn't take too long -- he didn't have very much money in his pocket. Some mid-November flakes began to drift down out of the sky, reflected in the cab's headlights.

As the bus stops drifted past Trowa was becoming more and more impatient. It took a great deal of self-control to refrain from drumming his fingers or tapping his foot on the floor of the cab. His eyes drifted to the meter and he winced. The fare was, naturally, skyrocketing upwards and if Dorothy didn't get off that bus soon, Trowa was going to have to call it a night and just give up. Well, either that or try to follow the bus's path on foot -- which probably wasn't impossible, but which was certainly not something he fancied having a go at in the frosty weather.

Luckily it didn't come to that, for at the next stop, Trowa finally caught sight of Dorothy descending from the bus. Feeling a warm thrill of success, Trowa shoved all his money at the taxi-driver, not caring that it was a couple of dollars too much (he hadn't the time to get change anyway!), and jumped out to continue his pursuit.

They were, he noticed, in an even lower rent district than the one that he lived in, and as a result the streetlamps were scarce and the sidewalk rather dark and dirty. Dorothy, however, seemed accustomed to the grime and walked through it with a speed born of familiarity, pulling up the collar of her coat around her ears as she walked. Trowa, unused to tailing people and the sorts of stealth measures and precautions to take, half walked and half jogged along behind her, keeping, he felt, a suitable distance behind her.

Perhaps, though, it wasn't far enough in back of her, because all of a sudden Dorothy froze in her tracks, and Trowa was forced into the old trick of walking a couple of steps more before stopping himself. Dorothy did not turn around to face him, but when she began moving again it was with a renewed vigor and at an even quicker pace -- this one born not of familiarity but of nerves. Trowa was forced to quicken his pace as well to keep her in his sights and not lose track of her.

He still did not have a very clear picture of what he was going to do -- but maybe he did want to scare her a bit. And so what if he did? It would give her a bit of a taste of the scare tactics that she had been using on Quatre! Serve her right! And then…and then he could confront her with his knowledge of what she had done…take her to the police himself…come out quite the hero, even. Maybe…maybe impress his boss into taking a bit of notice of him as something other than _just_ an employee. If he could just get on equal footing, maybe Trowa would have the chance to move things along between them…show Quatre that he really wasn't just some silly jackass puddling around with architecture -- that he was living, breathing, and most importantly _thinking_ person with ideas that just needed a little prodding and an understanding ear to come out.

Waitasec -- Dorothy!

_Okay, Barton_, Trowa told himself sternly, _back on track here. You'll have time for daydreaming later, right? After you get this nut to the cops where she belongs._

She had sped up again and was continuing to steadily pick up speed, until now Dorothy was practically flat out running away from him, her arms clutched close to her body.

_Shit!_ Trowa swore to himself. What was he supposed to do now that she knew there was someone coming after her? Well, he trusted his instincts -- when something ran from him, he chased it. So, naturally, he chased Dorothy.

She veered right suddenly and dashed down an alley. Moments later, Trowa turned into the same alley.

But where was she now?

_Oh come on, Barton, use your eyes; she can't have vanished into thin air, after all!_

He peered around the narrow darkened street, noticing that it was basically just a tiny space in between two buildings, rather old apartment buildings by the looks of them. There were a couple of sets of stairs leading up to side doors and some rather crumpled old metal trash cans lined up looking forlorn in the dim light and snow flurries. A clothesline was strung between two upper-floor windows. And then of course, a few yards back there was a chain-link fence. But _where_ was Dorothy! Trowa took a couple of steps farther into the alley, peering around in search of her.

But he needn't have bothered. She revealed herself quite suddenly, stepping out from behind one of the concrete staircases. Her blue eyes were frigid and narrowed at him as they caught sight of him. Her hand trembled, clutching something close to her body.

"Well, well, well," she said in her light, feminine voice, but her tone was tight and the words clipped short and cold. "Mr. Barton -- fancy meeting you here."

Wordlessly, Trowa took a step forward, closer to Dorothy.

Her reaction was instantaneous. "_Stay back_!" she shrieked as the hand that was holding something flew up and Trowa immediately saw that that something was a pistol -- a pistol pointed straight…at…him. "_You stay away from me_!" No longer simply cold and angry, Dorothy's voice was bordering on hysterical now. Her gun hand, Trowa could see even from where he was, was trembling violently, and he didn't like what that implied for her trigger finger. He complied and stepped back towards the entrance of the alleyway.

His mind was goggling. Any doubts that Dorothy was the culprit and the writer of the letters blackmailing Quatre were wiped clean from his mind -- all his suspicions were confirmed now -- but gone as well was the hope that perhaps he could have accomplished this himself. Trowa was out of his league, he was sure of it. This was the job of a trained professional cop, not himself. His confidence dribbled away, leaving him with only an icy lump of fear in his stomach for company. Yeah, okay, so he shouldn't fear death -- that was all fine and dandy -- but it didn't mean he was suicidal!

Dorothy advanced towards him, the gun shaking wildly in its aim on him. But her voice when she spoke was calm again now that she had the upper hand. Calm -- and maybe Trowa was imagining it -- but it sure seemed deadly too. "Keep going," she ordered. "You get out of here, Mr. Barton. You never come here again or so help me God I will shoot you, _do you understand me_? Get out of here! Get away from me!"

Trowa nodded, mutely, to show his comprehension, afraid to say anything. He complied slowly with Dorothy's orders, backing slowly out of the alley and then turning back in the direction he had come from and sprinting away, determined only to put as much distance between himself and that madwoman as he could get.


	9. Part Nine

**Part Nine**

That night Trowa somehow sprinted home over all the many city blocks and up to his apartment where he tumbled onto the bed with all his clothes on. He fell asleep almost immediately, but it was so light and restless that when he awoke the next morning he was practically more exhausted than he had been after arriving home.

Worry started pounding steadily away in his veins as soon as he began thinking about what had happened and what he should do. The last thing Trowa thought prudent was to show up at work and face Dorothy, with or without the police backing him up. Nor was he particularly keen, now that it came down to it, to face up to Quatre and admit that, yes, he'd been snooping through his boss's stuff. And what reason could he possibly use to defend himself about it? Sorry, sir, but you see I happen to be falling rather hard for you, so I just wanted to keep you safe by going behind your back? Somehow, he didn't think that would quite fly.

Trowa rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow with a loud groan.

The phone rang. Trowa blinked blearily and raised his head. Catherine was the only person he knew who would be calling him so early in the morning, and for one sick moment Trowa wondered how she could have possibly found out about last night so quickly before he realized that that was stupid and picked up the phone. He didn't even get the chance to say hello.

"Be in my office in _one hour_, Trowa. We need to talk."

"Wait -- Mr. Winner? Qua-_Quatre_?" Trowa demanded incredulously into the phone, but too late. The line had already gone dead. A wave of dread washed over Trowa. He knew what had happened, that was the only possibility…and he sounded -- well, unhappy was putting it mildly, Trowa decided, but he didn't want to get into vocabulary much less mild than that. What was he supposed to do?

He pressed his lips into a thin line and took a deep breath. He was not going to get upset, first of all. He was going to remain calm, and get ready, and think things through. He was not going to jump to conclusions. He was going to be in Mr. Winner's -- er, _Quatre's_, Trowa told himself sternly -- office in one hour, no more and no less.

He got out of bed, showered, dressed, and poured himself some cereal. He decided against milk because it looked to have gone a rather dingy yellow since he had used it last. He pondered the matter of his boss and Dorothy over breakfast, but could come to no sound conclusions. Surely Quatre knew Dorothy was his blackmailer -- though if he didn't and she had gone to him playing the victim that would certainly explain his tone of voice and shortness over the phone…

There was no use in brooding over it, Trowa knew that, but in the end he was the brooding type. Fortunately (or not) the time to leave arrived altogether too soon, and he forced himself to try and put matters out of his mind, in case they became so distracting that he was tempted to walk in front of a speeding bus. Visions of flying china danced in his head, as did the terror of unemployment.

It was only eight o'clock when he arrived at the Winner Enterprises building -- the revolving doors had been unlocked mere minutes before. It was in the elevator riding up that Trowa was struck with another thought -- where had Quatre gotten his phone number? But Trowa dismissed that almost as soon as he'd thought it as being silly -- after all, it wasn't as if he had an unlisted number.

The elevator dinged and whooshed smoothly open on the thirteenth floor. Thirteen was bad luck, Trowa thought as he walked down the hall, his agitation showing itself in his abnormally jerky movements. He hesitated just before rounding the corner that would bring him to Quatre's office, but forced himself on. Dorothy was not at her desk; she was nowhere to be seen, in fact.

Trowa swallowed his nerves and went to rap on Quatre's office door. There wasn't any answer, but he pushed the door open slightly anyway, and peered in. Quatre was there all right, and staring at him expectantly, so Trowa pushed the door open the rest of the way and, bracing himself for the worst, stepped inside.

"Sit down," Quatre told him calmly, gesturing to one of the cushy leather chairs in front of his desk. His voice was deadly serious, no hint of either the cheerful warmth Trowa had become accustomed to or of the extravagant temper tantrums he put on to frighten the unprepared. This was much worse than Trowa had expected, and he hastened to obey Quatre's command, the leather squeaking loudly as he settled himself.

"Would you care to explain to me exactly what is going on with you?" Quatre queried, not once removing his eyes from Trowa's face as he asked the question or waited for the response.

"I…beg your pardon?" Trowa ventured.

"Do you at least understand what you _did_ last night, Trowa?"

Trowa felt suddenly defiant. He was only looking out for Quatre's best interests, after all, which was more than the man seemed to be doing for himself! "I tried to bring Dorothy Catalonia to justice," he stated calmly, no longer caring what Quatre had to say in terms of angry words and rebukes, satisfied with the knowledge that he had been doing the right thing, even if he had gone about it the wrong way.

It was Quatre's turn to ask, "I beg your pardon?" He continued, "To justice for _what_?"

"Blackmailing you!" Trowa retorted. As if it hadn't been obvious enough, he huffed.

The color drained suddenly from Quatre's face at the mention of the words and he stared slack-jawed at Trowa in what was obviously complete and utter disbelief. Silence stretched on between them until Quatre finally repeated, "_Blackmailing_ me!" as if it was the last thing he'd been expecting to hear. "Trowa," he finally managed, "Dorothy Catalonia is _not_ blackmailing me, I can assure you."

Trowa was fed up. "What on Earth are you trying to protect her for?" he demanded angrily. "This woman is trying to coerce you into giving her money! She's threatening to _kill_ you -- how can you just sit there and defend her? She's _sick_!"

Quatre stood up, pacing out from behind his desk to sit on its corner. "You're right, Trowa," he said softly, and the distance that had been in his voice when Trowa had first entered was gone now. "Dorothy _is_ sick. She suffers from a mental condition which you would know as _paranoia_. She is not trying to blackmail me."

Trowa wasn't sure what emotion was bowling him over after hearing those words there were so many battling for control. "She's…not?" Quatre shook his head. "Then who the hell _is_!"

"Trowa, please; I don't want you to get involved in that."

"So you admit there _is_ someone!" Trowa pressed triumphantly, refusing to give in now.

"Trowa!" Quatre snapped loudly, real anger showing in him now. "It is none of your concern! Drop the issue, please."

"No!" Trowa retorted indignantly. It occurred to him suddenly that perhaps the reason Quatre didn't want him involved was because he didn't want to have to explain to Trowa _why_ it was happening. Trowa forced himself to try and empathize with that and calmed down a great deal. "Look, you don't have to tell me the full circumstances -- it's none of my business…but someone's doing something illegal to hurt you and they can't get away with that -- it's just not right. I just -- well, I want to help you, that's all, and if you won't let me directly then I'll find some other way."

"And have results like this?" Quatre asked, a wry smile twisting his lips. "You scared Dorothy half to death, Trowa; I won't have you doing that to the rest of my employees. I suppose you don't know this, but each and every person working at Winner Enterprises in a position like Dorothy's -- as a receptionist, a secretary, a janitor, all of the lower level jobs -- they all suffer from conditions like Dorothy's too. They're either just coming out of treatment or are afflicted with conditions too minor to require specialized care and just major enough to significantly affect their lives."

Trowa _was_ rather surprised by the news. Quatre was employing a bunch of loonies? "Why?" he asked, even as he recognized that it would be just like his boss to do something like that.

Quatre shrugged. There was a distant look to his eyes now; even though they were fixed on Trowa's face, Trowa got the feeling that Quatre wasn't really looking at him. "Because I understand what they're going through while suffering from debilitating illnesses. It's the least that I can do to provide them with well-paying, relatively low-stress jobs so that they can get their lives in order. And I can afford to do it; whatever losses the company might suffer as a result of having some unnecessary employees or certain less-effective ones are simply absorbed and made insignificant by the profits we turn each month. I have yet to be disappointed by my decision -- Dorothy is one of the finest secretaries I've ever had." He came back to life again with the last half of his speech and smiled a little, glancing down at his lap. Trowa thought he caught a tiny flush of embarrassment on Quatre's cheeks.

It seemed to Trowa that Quatre felt as though their discussion about his blackmailer had finished now that he had effectively gotten them onto a different subject, but Trowa certainly wasn't through yet. Quatre seemed willing enough to talk today, and Trowa wanted certain questions he had to be answered, as fully as Quatre would allow.

"Why was Dorothy's perfume on the letter in your desk if she's not your blackmailer?" he demanded, causing Quatre's face to jerk back up towards him.

"So that's where you drew your conclusion from." Quatre made a noise that Trowa thought might have been meant to be a half-hearted chuckle. "Snooping around behind my back and through my things. Dorothy's perfume was on that note because my blackmailer has found that my weakness is my guilty conscience. They've discovered that it's much more effective to make threats directed towards other people than it is to try and threaten _me_ directly." He got up and went back behind his desk (and Trowa found himself mourning the distance suddenly between them) to rummage through its drawers a moment. He returned quickly, carrying the note pieced together from newspaper scraps. "I imagine you misinterpreted this part here in conjunction with the perfume…" He pointed out the brief passage containing the words "do you know who". "It's referring to Dorothy as the victim, not as the blackmailer."

Which explained a lot of things… "That's why you went out to talk to her right after you got that note…and why she didn't come back the rest of the week," Trowa realized aloud, and Quatre nodded in confirmation.

"She was, naturally, rather upset. It's been dealt with, of course. I paid, and once the threat was over and Dorothy was calm enough, she came back to work. But I imagine your stalking her last night brought this back to mind for her rather vividly." Trowa winced inwardly and supposed it probably had.

"She held a gun on me," he groused, not quite willing to give up on his grudge against the young woman. Quatre agreed that that was perhaps going a bit far, but he stood fast that so long as she didn't use it the security it provided her was all right.

"I can't stand violence," he admitted, "but in extreme situations such as the one that Dorothy was placed in concerning the threat to her safety, I would not hesitate to condone her using it."

"But that's exactly why you should go to the police!" Trowa groaned. "Their job is to make sure that neither of you would _have_ to use violence! Why can't you see reason in this?"

"I've told you, Trowa -- I don't approve of the way the law enforcement system works in this country."

"So much so that you'd willingly give in to someone trying to hurt you? So that you'd happily let them go about their lives threatening you and everyone close to you? Honestly, Quatre -- that's just ridiculous. It's _childish_ is what it is, not to mention stupid. You could get yourself out of this situation in no time flat if you'd just go to the police and tell them what you know and let them deal with it! You're making things so much worse for yourself this way, and it's not even as if they have no idea what's going on, either, or aren't doing anything about it. They are!"

"With your help," Quatre pointed out blandly. "They'd have nothing to go on at all if it weren't for your cooperation -- they would have dropped their involvement by now entirely if it weren't for you, you know. Then perhaps I'd be free to deal with this situation in my own way, without the police's so-called aid."

"And how's that? By living submissively the rest of your life? Or by taking the law into your own hands and using some of the same illegal methods this guy is using?"

That, Trowa reflected after the words had left his mouth, might have been going a little bit far. Quatre pursed his lips together tightly and his hands, Trowa was quite certain, would have been shaking if they weren't pressed so hard against the desk that they were turning white instead. "It's none of your concern, Trowa. I am not going to go to the police for help. And from now on I would prefer it if you didn't go to discuss this with them either. But it's your choice, of course, and not one I can make for you. I would just hate to lose such a talented architect for this project…and," he added more quietly, "more importantly, your company."

Shit… Trowa's shoulders slumped forward in defeat. After all, how could he resist a line like _that_? "I only wanted to help you," he mumbled in one last attempt.

"Believe me, by doing this you will be."

"Okay. Fine. I won't go to the police without your consent," he agreed reluctantly, quickly adding, "But that doesn't mean I'm going to keep out of this either." He wasn't sure how he was going to stay involved when, as he'd just shown, his sleuthing skills were so poor, but there wasn't any way he was going to just give up either, not when Quatre and those close to him were in so much danger. It didn't even occur to Trowa that he might eventually be counted among those close to him in that manner.

"Thank you," Quatre said with a quiet sigh of relief. "Now, I think an apology to Dorothy might be called for." Trowa grimaced. He'd been afraid that might be coming, and he was terrible at apologies! And then, as if to add insult to injury, "Come on, let's go."

Trowa was horrified. "You're coming too?"

"Of course. Someone needs to moderate things between you two. Dorothy might think you're coming to stalk her again if you go alone," Quatre said with a teasing smirk as he started to bundle himself up against the bitter outdoor chill.

Trowa, who had brought only a jacket, watched with faint amusement the double-breasted overcoat, the scarf, and the gloves that Quatre donned. "You know it's not even officially winter yet," he said, rather snidely, a comment which Quatre returned with a withering stare.

"Forgive me for getting cold so easily," he said dryly.

* * *

They took the bus to Dorothy's, Quatre generously paying the fare for both of them. It was a mostly silent ride, Quatre gazing serenely out the window and watching the scenery go by, and Trowa staring down at his hands in his lap or sneaking the occasional glance at Quatre's profile. He desperately wanted to keep talking, and didn't know why he found conversation so difficult -- but he just didn't have access to the steady stream of topics that people like Duo did. Once he got going he was generally all right…it was just the getting going part that was the problem.

"So…" he was finally about to attempt, but never got around to anything else, because the bus had finally reached Dorothy's stop, and, of course, as he and Quatre were trying to get off, the other commuters trying to do the same were jostling them both rather too badly for conversation to be viable.

"Still in one piece?" Quatre asked when they were both standing on the sidewalk, turning to him with upturned lips. Trowa felt his mouth go suddenly dry, caught off guard by the expression which he found disturbingly attractive. He could only nod in response -- dooming the two of them to another period of long silence.

Seeing the neighborhood in the daylight, Trowa didn't really recognize the street they were on -- though Quatre seemed to have no such trouble and strolled along the sidewalk quite at ease, which Trowa found a little odd considering his wealthy background.

"We'll go in the back way," Quatre told him when they turned into an alley, which Trowa _did_ recognize from his confrontation with Dorothy the previous night. Quatre jogged up the cement stairs, and Trowa followed more tentatively behind him, waiting more than patiently while Quatre rapped on the door and called through it. It was a few minutes before Dorothy opened it and glared out at the two of them.

"Good morning," Quatre greeted her with what Trowa found more than abundant levels of enthusiasm. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Yes," Dorothy replied, glaring at Trowa disdainfully.

Quatre noted her look with a soft chuckle, telling her, "I brought Trowa along for a quick apology." He glanced quickly back and forth between the other two before volunteering to put water on to boil for tea. Then he edged Trowa through the door around Dorothy and left them both standing on the threshold. Trowa watched him moving around what he could now see to be a tiny kitchen.

He shuffled his feet around on the linoleum, staring down at them, before starting awkwardly, "Look, um…I'm sorry…about last night, I mean. I was…rather misinformed, and, um -"

"It's fine," Dorothy interrupted, giving Trowa the impression that it was anything but. "Don't follow me again."

"No -- I won't." The words were directed to empty air, however, because as soon as Dorothy had finished talking to him she had turned around to start fetching cups and saucers out of cupboards.

That was how Trowa found himself at the beginning of a very awkward morning tea. He scratched his chin (he had neglected to shave in his rush, and it itched) and looked about himself. The kitchen was surprisingly homey, he thought -- though he often found that the rooms of old buildings loaned themselves to that aura more easily -- particularly considering whose it was. There were even distinctly feminine white, frilly lace curtains on the windows looking out over the alleyway. He raised his eyebrows in rather skeptical surprise. It was not exactly what he would have expected out of Dorothy Catalonia.

There was not a great deal of time to dwell on that, however, because he was interrupted by Quatre asking him if wanted milk and sugar. "No thanks," he responded to both, and then found himself sitting down at the kitchen table to tea with the woman he'd been trying to arrest last night and the man he'd been trying to protect from her, just as if they had all been friends for years.

It was a bizarre half hour, to say the least.


	10. Part Ten

**Part Ten**

Over the next couple of weeks things returned to normal. Well, Trowa assumed they had anyway. In what he considered a lucky twist of fate -- prodded along, no doubt, by Quatre's diplomacy -- he had gone out to Chicago for a little while to consult with the construction company about what they could expect over the next couple of months from the expanding Winner Enterprises. The major challenge of the project was the obligation to be as environmentally-friendly as possible, and Trowa had been involved in long discussions about whether the materials he had in mind would be flexible and sturdy enough for his design. He'd had to make a few concessions and a couple of minor changes to his plans, but on the whole things seemed to be looking pretty good for him. It was a tough job, but one that would make his résumé for years to come. He even had his first encounter with the Chicago press who were excited that Mr. Winner's company would be bringing his name to their city and wanted to know whether the building would be up to standards.

After reading the interview the next day, he left for home feeling very professional indeed. It had been good -- _very_ good -- to have a break. He had been able to concentrate on his work free from distractions (and the progress showed), and he'd had the chance to clear his mind and twist his head back on straight. Now maybe he'd be able to approach the whole Quatre situation with a bit of intelligence and common sense, because there had been a time, once, when he had actually prided himself on his reason.

The truth was that he was getting just a little fed up and resentful about Quatre's attitude towards his…predicament. He was just acting stupid. Trowa had tried on several occasions to get him to see sense, and had failed each time. And acting without Quatre's cooperation wasn't getting him anywhere -- _he_ was just one guy, and Sally wasn't being much help either. Maybe the time had come to just call it quits. And Trowa knew that when relief flooded him at the thought of not having to fight Quatre's fight that the time really had come.

That's what he thought about on the plane ride home, and on the walk to work the next day. And when Quatre smiled at him and said "Welcome home!" as he walked into the office, for the first time in months Trowa felt honest when he grinned back.

"So tell me, how did things go?"

"Really well. I've got the new and improved plans with me, so you can check them out. They've already got a scale model out there, and I was going to make one for here as well. You can put it in the lobby or something where people can see it. Unless you've got any problem with the revisions we made out there the major construction can start as soon as winter's over."

"Sounds great." Quatre grinned and leaned back in his desk chair, popping his feet up to rest on top of some very important looking papers. He wasn't wearing any shoes.

"Do you want to see the plans?"

"I trust you. I'm sure they're great."

Trowa frowned a little. "But still…it's going to be your new headquarters. I want to make sure you're satisfied with everything. Why don't you have a look? It'll only take a minute."

"Oh, if it will make you happy, fine," Quatre sighed playfully, and reached out a hand. Trowa handed him the papers, and was about to begin explaining things, but Quatre just started flipping through the pages without waiting for the commentary on the changes. "These look fine, Trowa. The building's going to be gorgeous." His tone was warm and friendly, but there was a distance that Trowa couldn't quite place. It was almost as if Quatre didn't quite care about the fact that the core of his business was going to be moving into _this_ building, and that if something was wrong with the workplace, something was bound to be wrong with the work as well. It was…a little insulting, to be honest.

"Thanks," Trowa replied dully, taking back the designs and heading over to his desk.

"Cheer up!" Quatre called after him. "They really do look great."

* * *

A paper airplane crashed unexpectedly into the back of Trowa's neck, and he didn't even flinch. It was the ninth such interruption today, and he was beginning to get used to them. "Sorry," Quatre called, grinning and snickering behind his hand. Trowa nodded, but he was, he had to admit, a little aggravated by the challenge to his productivity. He put down his pen and picked up the plane, straightening out its slightly crumpled nose before he sent it back in the direction of its master. It executed a flip in the air before sliding into a neat landing atop Quatre's desk.

He let out a whistle of appreciation and turned his gleaming eyes on Trowa. "They teach you to do that in your architecture classes?" he asked teasingly.

"_You_ clearly failed the aerodynamics portion of business administration," Trowa retorted quietly. He was about to turn back to his work, but then curiosity stopped him. He looked back over at his boss and asked one of the questions that had been on his mind since he'd been hired. "Quatre, how is it that you never do any work?"

To his surprise, for the second that Quatre was unable to control his reaction he looked almost _frightened_ by the question. Then the look was gone, replaced with a smooth, dangerous smile. "I'll have you know I do plenty of work, Mr. Barton," he said -- and Trowa knew that the gentle huffiness of his tone had been swiftly calculated. He had learned one or two things about his boss in the months that he'd been sharing his office, and one of those things had been to recognize Quatre's lies. Of course, that could be a little hard, what with there being so many of them.

"I'm serious," Trowa pressed. It was about time, he thought, that Quatre learned that he knew him better than that -- that he wasn't just some employee to be manipulated. There were times he could see right through him…and he was very determined to make sure this was one of those times. "All you do is fool around here and play pretend. You _pretend_ that you're a businessman, you _pretend_ to be in control, you _pretend_ to be a jerk who throws stuff at people he doesn't like. And you pretend to take action, when you don't really do a thing, do you?" He thought they both knew what he was talking about. And Quatre did not look very happy about the fact.

"You don't understand the situation, Trowa."

"That's why I'm asking."

Quatre frowned, but even Trowa could see that it was half-hearted. And then he slumped, as if the effort of holding himself up had just gotten too great. "I don't know what to say," he admitted, sounding very lost; and Trowa quickly understood that the person sitting in Quatre's office chair was the one who spent most of his time hiding. "I respect you, Trowa…more than you know…and I want you to respect me, too. But there's so much that I just can't say. It's been a huge relief having you around, believe it or not -- someone who's not -" he waved a hand vaguely around the room "- part of all this. I hate this place."

It was Trowa's turn to frown. For all of Trowa's moments of insight into his boss, there were huge chunks of time during which Quatre just made no sense. Hundreds of questions, all of them beginning with "Why?" tumbled through his head.

Just then Quatre seemed to pull himself back together. He sat upright again, and his blue eyes were sharp and focused. "The short answer to your question, Trowa, is that I don't do work around this place because I don't like it. And the reason I show up every day is because of my father. We didn't agree very often while he was alive…and I owe him this much, at least, now that he's dead. I hope that satisfies your curiosity." It didn't sound spiteful or sarcastic when he said it, just like the end of the conversation.

"Yeah," Trowa muttered. But he didn't go back to work. Quatre had said that he wanted Trowa to respect him, and for a few minutes he was torn by a familiar indecision. He wanted to help Quatre, and he also wanted to respect him. And he was tired of his choices hurting. The time really had come to let it go, he thought. "There's just one other thing," he started, and Quatre looked up at him expectantly. Trowa took a breath. "About your blackmailer -"

"Not this again!" Quatre cut in angrily. "You just can't keep out of my business, can you?"

"No -!" Trowa started to protest, but cut himself short as he realized Dorothy had suddenly materialized inside the office, and that she was laughing. At him. And making no attempt to hide the fact, despite the hand delicately covering her lips. It quickly got worse, as she jumped to his defense…

"Oh don't be angry with him, please, Mr. Winner," she said, as prim and proper as could be, apart from the positively devilish smirk on her lips. "While it's true that Mr. Barton _is_ nosy, anyone around here with eyes can tell you that it's only because he's completely in love with you."

…and Trowa could literally feel the floor drop out from underneath him.

"Here's your mail for today, sir," she continued coolly, dropping a stack of envelopes onto Quatre's desk. The tiniest of gloating smiles was all the recognition she sent in Trowa's direction as she sashayed back out of the room, leaving an icy silence in her wake.

Strangely numb, Trowa glanced over to check out Quatre's reaction. He had spun his swivel chair around to face the window, and Trowa could just barely see the top of his head. What should he do? The room felt stifling suddenly, impossible to get a lungful of air. "Actually, what I was going to say, was that I was going to stop trying to help you." He didn't like the way his voice sounded -- dead.

Abruptly, Quatre spun back around, grabbed his coffee mug (empty, fortunately), and lobbed it at Trowa's head. "Was it true?" he asked as Trowa deftly caught the mug before it smacked him in the face.

To be quite honest, Trowa wasn't sure. He liked Quatre, absolutely, but if he came right down to it, did he _love_ him? Did he?

The pause was too long for Quatre's taste, and the paperweight was next. "I need to _know_, Trowa!" he yelled. Finally, the stapler, just as he ordered, "Tell me!"

"No!" The decisive answer burst out of him, just as he had to start juggling to keep the stapler at bay. _Why had he said that?_ he wondered almost immediately. _Was it true?_

Yes it was, he realized. He couldn't love Quatre -- he didn't know who he really was. The first time he'd seen him, he'd thought Quatre was attractive…and then he had realized that Quatre was not just someone who threw temper tantrums, but someone altogether different and unexpected…and then he had learned part of Quatre's secret and wanted to protect him, save him, and gotten so caught up that he had never actually found out _who Quatre really was_, beyond a very secretive, foolhardy, overprotective, ungrateful…stranger.

"I don't love you," Trowa said, half to himself. It was a revelation, freeing. "And I'm done protecting you." He put the things Quatre had thrown at him on the floor. "I think the person you most need saving from is yourself," the revelations continued, a hollow laugh forcing its way past Trowa's throat, "and I can't help with _that_."

Quatre put down his pencil holder, which he had been about to throw, with a heavy thump. "You don't love me," he repeated faintly. "Good." He crossed the room in five quick steps. "That means I can do this just once and it won't matter."

And with those words, Quatre kissed him.

The lips brushing against his trembled there for just a moment before drawing away, but it was long enough for the magnetic pull Trowa felt towards Quatre to surge. Grasping blindly, he found Quatre's arms and pulled him closer again, then stood up to close the rest of the distance.

But it wasn't to last. Quatre yanked himself away. "You said you didn't love me," he accused, a warning look in his eyes.

"I don't. But, Quatre, I could if you'd let me."

"Damn it!" He turned away, then turned back just as quickly, body tense, eyes flashing. "That's not what you're supposed to say!"

"Why not?" Part of Trowa was genuinely curious; the other part thought he knew.

With obvious effort, Quatre reined in his temper enough to bite his tongue, quick, agitated steps carrying him back to his desk. He hadn't managed to intimidate Trowa yet during this encounter, for all his yelling, but the cold picture of authority he cut as he seated himself behind his desk was enough to do so now. He seemed somehow not quite human, and something cold squirmed up Trowa's spine at the thought.

Back in his power seat, Quatre seemed to calm down a little, gathering his tattered wits back up around him like a blanket. "I misunderstood you, Trowa," he said calmly. "I apologize for my behavior just now, it was completely inappropriate for the office setting. I hope you can forgive me and move past it."

"Quatre -" Trowa cut in. He had to know. "Do you love _me_?"

For a second something seemed to flicker in Quatre's eyes; but then he answered firmly, "No."

"Not even if you had the chance?"

A little laughed slipped past his defenses. It was a sad sound. "I don't love you, Trowa; you needn't bother trying to manipulate things into your favor, it won't happen. One of these days, you see, I'm going to get married. I'm going to have children. I'm going to retire, and _they_'re going to run this place. You, on the other hand, are going to finish your contract for me. I am going to provide you with excellent references. And you are going to continue on with your work quite successfully. So, you see, there simply _is_ no chance. I'm glad you've finally come to your senses about…my little problem. Just please continue to remember: Don't get involved."

Trowa's fists had clenched angrily during Quatre's smug little speech. Yeah. What would a stuck-up Winner want with a loser like him anyway? Made perfect - fucking - sense. "I'm not involved," he replied now, cold and impersonal. It was the truth. Quatre had held him an arm's length away from involvement ever since he had arrived at the company. He had never succeeded in getting closer. And now he had no desire to.

"Good." Quatre paused, looking him briskly up and down. "You're obviously still stressed from your trip to Chicago. Why don't you take the rest of the day off?"

"Fine." To get away from the office? Anything. Trowa made for the door, but then he hesitated, trying to find the words to express what was rushing through his brain. "You know what?" he finally said. "You need serious help."

He didn't try to hear what Quatre muttered to himself as he left, but the words just fluttered into his ear just before he shut the door on them: "…At least that's one thing I've got."

The door banged closed just a little more loudly than usual, the cryptic words frustrating Trowa to his boiling point. Dorothy looked up from her desk, where she'd been browsing through a magazine. Trowa didn't like the self-satisfied look on her face and he was feeling vindictive, so he flipped it out of her grasp on his way past. It was that outdated issue of _Time_ that he'd been reading the day he'd landed this stupid job, dog-eared and mangled by now from its overuse.

"Don't you ever clean these out?" he snapped in disgust and jammed it into the trash. It was a pointless gesture, but it made him feel better nonetheless.

Dorothy's cold eyes followed him. "You'd better watch yourself, Mr. Barton," she called after him, "you don't want to offend your boss."

* * *

Trowa knew what he had to do, but that sure as hell didn't make it any easier. Sally was going to kill him. _Oh well_, he thought, staring up at the imposing police station, _quick and painful, like ripping off a band-aid…but then it'll all be over, thank God._

He recognized the man inside with the wire-rim glasses, but apparently the other man didn't remember him as he took Trowa in with the same bored expression he gave everyone else. "I'm looking for Officer Po, is she around?"

"Should be at her desk -- through those doors there."

"Thanks." Trowa went in gloomily, and there she was. "Hi," he said, and watched her jump in her chair then spin around to stare at him, a hand clapped over her heart.

"Damn, Trowa, don't do that to a girl! You just get back?"

He nodded.

"Well you've got great timing, I was just about to grab a late lunch. You want to join me?"

"Ah, I really need to talk to you, actually. It shouldn't take long."

"Well you can talk while I eat; come on."

And that was how he found himself in the cafeteria, staring at Sally as she chowed down on a cheeseburger. "So shoot," she said, "what's up? I've got loads to tell you, too, as it happens."

Trowa took a deep breath; this was harder than he'd thought it was going to be. "I'm dropping out. You're going to have to find some other stool pigeon."

The burger slipped out of Sally's hands and landed with a juicy plop back on her plate. "You're kidding me, right?" she said blankly, in a voice that let Trowa know that she knew perfectly well he wasn't. "_Why_? We are _this_ close to busting this thing wide open!"

"We know hardly anything more than when we started," Trowa blithely contradicted. "Look, Sally, I'm not here to argue about this, I just wanted to let you know that I'm not going to help you out anymore."

"Did Mr. Winner put you up to this?" she asked suspiciously, then shook her head. "Sorry, that's beside the point. But at _least_ let me make my case for having you stay." She rushed on before he could say anything. "Here is what we know: Mr. Winner is being blackmailed. The blackmailer knows Quatre well enough to effectively get what he or she wants out of him. The blackmailer has, or had, people working for him or her willing to put their life on the line. And the electronic files that might be relevant to this case have all been wiped clean. Which means that someone who is skilled enough with computers to get into the police database is somehow involved with either Quatre or the blackmailer."

"So?" Trowa was starting to get impatient -- even though it was only the early afternoon, he was damn tired and ready to go home and sleep for about a decade or so, until all this blew over and it was safe to come out from under the covers again.

"That's a lot of good information, and it's stuff that you found out because you're in a position close to Quatre. And think about this! I know he told you he disapproved of your trying to help me, but he never made any real effort to stop you, did he? I think he probably wants us to solve this as much as I do, he's just not willing to admit it. Trowa, I really think we're close to a breakthrough, so does Une -- she's even going to add a couple of officers to the case -- but I _need_ you to stick with me, you're the best source of up-to-date information I've got!"

"There are plenty of people who know much more about Quatre than I ever will," Trowa replied, with more than a touch of bitterness, adding silently, _like his future wife and children_. "You're probably better off asking one of _them_. Besides, if you want to find his blackmailer, you're going to have to look in his past, not his present."

Sally groaned. "I am -- I've been digging through the files ever since you left. It's a slow process when you're doing it all by hand. But you're not listening to me, I need you to keep track of what's happening _now_, that's just as important." He shrugged. He'd said everything he could say, and now there was no more point in sticking around. "Damn it, Trowa!" Sally growled at him as he stood to go, and then the anger faded into cold acceptance. "I am…_really_ disappointed in you," she sighed as he walked away.

He shrugged.

* * *

What Trowa really wanted to do was kick something. Sally's words had stung a little more than he was willing to admit. She wasn't the only one disappointed in him -- it was beginning to feel a bit like the entire world wanted him on a stick. He thought he'd been doing a reasonably good job of keeping his aggression under control, but apparently his efforts weren't quite good enough.

Relena heard his approach and opened her door to see what all the fuss was about. Trowa sighed -- she was good company, normally, but right now he really just wanted to crawl into bed.

"You're home early," she commented, letting him know that he wasn't going to get rid of her without a fight…make that, _another_ fight. Better just to let her stay. "Did something happen at work?"

He snorted. That was one way of putting it.

"That bad, huh?" She waited a few moments as if to let him prepare for the worst, then asked, "Is Quatre okay?"

Trowa didn't even bother trying to stop the dirty look he gave her. "Why do you _assume_ it's got something to do with Quatre?" he asked, letting himself into his apartment. Relena trailed easily after him.

"Well I know we've always politely ignored the subject ourselves," she said, "but your sister's called a couple of times while I've been here and he's all she ever seems to want to talk about with you."

_Damn Catherine!_

"So…presumably…something's going on with you guys?"

"That would be overstating things a bit," Trowa replied flatly. "In fact, as of today, I think it's safe to say nothing is or will be going on between us."

"Do you mean he's straight?" Relena burst out incredulously, and when Trowa looked over at her, eyebrows eloquently raised, she had turned beet red and clamped her hands over her mouth. "I mean…um…I'm sorry."

"That's not quite what I meant," he said dryly, although it could well have been. (And _was_ Quatre straight? He had sort of gotten mixed signals there, what with the kiss first and the talk of a wife and children quickly following…but Trowa got the impression, no. Not that it mattered anymore, of course.)

"Oh…" she stuttered, natural politician's composure taking another dive. "But then…what did you mean?"

Trowa flopped down onto the couch rather more heavily than strictly necessary. Oh, what the hell -- so long as he was vague… "I am," he calmly announced, "extricating myself from Quatre's personal problems."

"You make it sound like a New Year's resolution," she said quietly, but Trowa could hear the interest and concern in her voice. She stared down at her hands, looking guilty for some reason Trowa couldn't possibly fathom. Tentatively she asked, "Has he…got a lot of problems? Quatre?"

Trowa hesitated, trying to assess what Relena was trying to get out of him. "More than his fair share, I'd say," he finally answered. "Why?"

"Well, you remember," she shrugged, "the Dorlians and the Winners have always been close. Well, Quatre and I weren't, but maybe we should have been, huh? I just feel bad now, if he's dealing with something difficult all alone."

As it happened, Trowa had forgotten that tidbit about the Dorlian and Winner families. Here at his side he'd had someone who could, maybe, have told him all sorts of things about Quatre that he didn't know, and he hadn't bothered to use his resources. And now it was too late. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Trowa had to remind himself suddenly that he didn't care anymore. "I think he would be just as happy as I am that you're not involved," he said out loud, hoping that none of what he was thinking crept into his voice.

"Yes, I'm sure you're right," Relena laughed, allowing herself to take a seat on Trowa's coffee-table. "Quatre was a very private person, from what I remember -- perfectly nice, of course, but he always seemed so distant, I didn't really want to make the effort to be closer friends. And then we went off to different boarding schools, and I have to admit I almost forgot all about him until my senior year."

There was something about the way she said it, the gloomy, thoughtful expression her face suddenly took on, that Trowa just had to ask: "What happened senior year?"

"Didn't you know?" Relena asked, looking surprised. "That's when his father died. I can't remember now whether it was suicide or murder -- it was a…violent death, either way. Daddy called me when it happened, he thought someone Quatre's own age would do a better job comforting him. Well, I did try for all the good it did." Trowa didn't miss the involuntary little shudder that raced across Relena's shoulders.

His mind was jumping about all over the place -- Quatre had mentioned his father dying, but not the circumstances…it was the reason he was in business. Was there something he was missing? A violent death…could Winner senior have been having blackmail troubles of his own, which got out of hand? Was Quatre only involved because he was next in line to the company? "For all the good it did?" he repeated, his voice breathy with excitement.

Relena eyed him suspiciously. "You're awfully interested in Quatre's past for someone who's trying to extricate himself from Quatre's problems," she commented. "Maybe I should be interested too?"

That sobered Trowa immediately and brought him back to the present. "You don't have to tell me."

"Will it help if I do?"

"I don't know," Trowa answered honestly, though his curiosity _was_, he had to admit, getting the better of him, even if he wouldn't use the information to try and figure out Quatre's mystery.

"It's just that it's probably not the sort of thing he'd want getting around."

"Well I can at least promise you it won't end up in the gossip column."

The hesitation was still there, but Relena drew in a deep breath and finished the story. "Mr. Winner's death upset Quatre, considerably. He was, sort of, unstable for a while, and he had to spend some time in a clinic and in intensive therapy. I think it was several years before he was able to claim his inheritance."

"That's why he employs so many people with mental problems," Trowa realized suddenly. Then got up, striding into the kitchen where he scribbled something on a pad of paper.

"What're you doing?" Relena frowned.

Trowa came back and shoved the paper into her hand. "That's the number of a woman called Sally Po. I think maybe you should call her and tell her what you told me. But if she asks you to do anything else, say no. And don't tell her I told you to call…she'll probably figure it out anyway."

Relena's frown deepened. "This sounds really serious, Trowa. Is Quatre going to be all right?"

Trowa sighed. "He's stupid…and stubborn…but I think he'll be okay. Don't worry about it."


	11. Part Eleven

**Part Eleven**

Painful. No, _agonizing_. That was the best word to describe Trowa's next few weeks. It was bad when he arrived at work the day after talking to Relena to find Duo waiting to jump on him. The conversation they had was even worse. Apparently, Sally had turned to Duo when Trowa dried up as a source of information, and Duo was pretty pissed. Trowa couldn't discern _why_. To be frank, he didn't really care…but putting up with Duo's dirty looks whenever they were in the same room was a little annoying.

It was even worse when Quatre maintained that cold, polite distance between them. Every time he said "Good morning, Trowa" in that bland, half-digested drone it made Trowa want to shake him. Doubly so when he was still friendly with Duo, who, Trowa thought it likely, really had taken on his old role in Sally's scheming.

But what was worst of all were the eyes boring into his back. The eyes were Quatre's, staring at him from across the room, day in and day out. Trowa could never catch his boss at it, but he _knew_ Quatre was watching him. It shattered his concentration, and made every day feel ten times longer than it was, because that stare was so at odds with the fact that Quatre was treating him like a stranger these days. If only Trowa had some solid proof that it wasn't just his imagination -- if he could just turn around once and meet Quatre's eyes -- it might not be so bad, but all the points were still falling on Quatre's side of the board.

Trowa should have known better. When had things ever managed to settle into stability for him at Winner Enterprises? Something was always popping up…and so something did again, only a month after he had sworn off all things pertaining to Quatre's personal life.

No sooner had the elevator doors opened onto the thirteenth floor than Duo was in there with him, blocking Trowa's exit and punching the door close button. "You are not going to believe this!" he hissed excitedly, his voice strained with the effort of not shouting.

Trowa frowned. "I don't think I want to know," he replied severely, trying to move past Duo without actually shoving him out of the way.

"Trust me, yeah you do." Duo spread his arms wide. Trowa wasn't going to get past without at least touching him. "Sally's got it." When there was no reaction, Duo narrowed his eyes. "Didn't you _hear_ me? I said Sally's _got_ it."

"And I said I'm not interested." Trowa reached over Duo's arm to press the button to open the elevator doors. "Excuse me, please."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Duo demanded, but he backed off, letting Trowa squeeze out. "I thought you cared about this guy. Now you expect me to believe that you don't give a rat's ass about the biggest problem he's got -- or a way to solve it?"

"Yeah. That _is_ what I expect you to believe. In case you didn't notice last month, I quit, remember? There was a reason." Trowa walked away without another word, but he could hear Duo's exasperated grunt and knew he was rolling his eyes at Trowa's back. But Trowa - did - not - care.

Well, at least, not until later that day.

Duo's tidbit of information had not been the first test of Trowa's intention to remain out of Quatre's business, and as he had done with all the others Trowa put it out of his mind, and tried not to fidget under Quatre's relentless stare. He was doing a pretty good job, too…until Dorothy came in and ruined everything.

"Quatre -" she gasped. Trowa didn't look up from his work, but wondered why that sounded so strange. There were two reasons. The first was that Dorothy always called Quatre Mr. Winner. The second was that she was absolutely terrified. Trowa put down his pencil and stood up.

Quatre was already at Dorothy's side. "What is it?" he asked, "Dorothy, what's wrong?"

"It's _her_. On the phone! She's calling for you." Dorothy clutched at Quatre's lapel, glaring at him accusingly even though she looked ready to faint. Quatre glanced over at Trowa, who remained where he was.

"All right." Quatre was remarkably calm as he turned back to Dorothy. He gently pried her hands away from his jacket and instructed her, "There's a cell phone in the top drawer of my desk. I need you to call the first entry on speed-dial and tell the person who answers that she is calling here. Can you do that?"

"No!"

"Please, Dorothy. This is important."

"_You_ do it. I _can't_."

Trowa clenched his teeth for a second, then succumbed and sighed, "I'll do it."

Quatre started to say no, but then he looked at Dorothy again and hesitated. "Fine," he snapped, "but don't do anything else."

"I won't," Trowa replied, but it was to Quatre's retreating back as he went out to the waiting room.

"Hurry up," Dorothy hissed at him, and Trowa rushed to Quatre's desk, fished out the cell phone, and made the call. It rang only once before a rough voice answered,

"Yuy."

"I'm supposed to tell you that she's calling here -"

"On it," Yuy interrupted before Trowa could elaborate further. Obviously, he knew exactly who "she" was, and that "here" was referring to Winner Enterprises. Trowa wasn't surprised when he was hung up on a second later. Maybe Quatre wasn't kidding when he said he had help.

Trowa stepped out of the office and into the waiting room. Dorothy had seated herself on the sofa by the door. Her face was buried in her hands, and she was trembling. A tiny prescription bottle was on the coffee table in front of her. Trowa sat down next to her, wondering what the other half of the conversation Quatre was having sounded like. He guessed that it was probably a lot of yelling, because it seemed like Quatre kept getting cut off halfway through what he was trying to say. Far from getting frustrated, however, his boss seemed to become more and more meek. Except for once, when he shouted, "No, that's wrong!" so suddenly that Trowa and Dorothy jumped. Trowa snuck a peek at him, and was startled to see that Quatre was almost as pale was Dorothy.

Finally, he hung up.

Trowa looked up expectantly.

"You can go home, Dorothy. I'll get Rashid to escort you, you don't need to worry. Trowa…give me a minute." Quickly, Quatre walked back into his office and shut the door. A few seconds later a big, burly man appeared, and Dorothy stood up, wiped her eyes, and walked proudly (if a little unsteadily) over to him. The man's eyes swept over Trowa, but neither he nor Dorothy said a word as they left.

Trowa sat on the couch a little while longer. The silence was unnerving. He waited until he couldn't take it anymore, and then got up and went over to the door. Half expecting to have something smash into him, he opened the door a crack and peered inside. Quatre was nowhere to be seen.

Worried now, Trowa hurried inside. There was no way Quatre could just disappear, but where -- there, of course, behind the desk. Trowa could just see a bit of Quatre's suit through the inch of space between the rich wood and the floor. Relief flooded him.

"What're you doing?" he asked, going over. Quatre had ignored his desk chair in favor of sitting on the floor, his legs drawn up to his chin and his arms over his head.

"I've screwed up," Quatre moaned into his knees, sounding horribly like a lost little kid. "I've screwed up so bad."

Trowa sank down beside him. "Quatre, you're kind of scaring me. What's happened?"

Finally, Quatre lifted up his head, but seeing his face didn't exactly allay Trowa's concern. If anything, in fact, the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach deepened a few inches. "You need to call your family," he said in a tone that didn't allow for any argument. "You need to tell them to be careful. Tell them they should stay in one place. They should lock their doors."

Trowa obeyed without thinking, but even as he began dialing Catherine's cell-phone number from the phone on Quatre's desk he was insisting, "Tell me what's going on."

"What's going on? You were right, Trowa." Stunned, Trowa dropped his gaze to Quatre's face staring back up at him. It was twisted with remorse, fear, guilt. It was ugly. Trowa couldn't look anymore. Luckily, he didn't have to -- Catherine picked up. And immediately Trowa almost wished she hadn't. Something was wrong.

"Who is it?" she asked, her voice tinny-sounding and hollow.

"It's me. What's wrong?"

"Oh, God, Trowa…" Catherine suddenly broke down. The sinking feeling Trowa had experienced earlier became a churning as Catherine sobbed into the phone. "Please, Trowa, you've got to come down right away. It's…it's Mom and Dad. There was a crash…and, oh, Trowa, they're dead…"

And strangely enough, the churning stopped and Trowa felt completely calm. "When did this happen?"

Choking on the words, Catherine managed to say, "I got a call an hour ago. The doctor said…the doctor said they were dead when they arrived."

"Where are you?"

"I'm at the hospital! Where else would I be?"

Patiently, Trowa elaborated, "I meant which city."

There was a pause, as if Catherine herself was trying to remember. "Phoenix," she finally replied. "Arizona. St. Joseph's Hospital."

"Okay. Cathy, I'm coming. Wait for me at the hospital. Don't go anywhere. Not _anywhere_, understand?"

"Please hurry, Trowa."

He put down the phone. He thought his hand should be shaking, but it wasn't. He thought there should be tears in his eyes, but there weren't. He thought he should feel something…anything, really, but he didn't. He didn't even care that somehow Quatre, who was standing ashen beside him, had known this was going to happen.

"Too late," he moaned, "wasn't I."

Surely a normal person would be angry, would want to lash out at Quatre for causing all this. For _killing his parents_. But Trowa just nodded. "They're dead," he whispered, half to himself, "my mother and father."

It was Quatre who flinched at the words, not him. "I'm so sorry. I…I can't fix this. Can I."

"How did you know?" As soon as the words left his lips Trowa shook his head. That was worthless now. He had to go. "If she touches my sister, I'll…I'll kill you."

"Wait!"

He was halfway to the door! But… Clenching his teeth, Trowa stopped walking. He didn't turn around.

"You should know what happened."

Trowa almost laughed. "Are you joking?" he demanded. "It's too late for that!"

"_Please_. You deserve to know. I won't keep you here, your sister needs you…but just let me come with you. Please." Invite one of his parents' murderers along for the ride? What kind of sick, _demented_…but he didn't say no when Quatre came closer. The word just wouldn't come. He shut his eyes -- just for a second, surely, but almost before he knew it he was in the passenger side of Quatre's car, and Quatre was speaking, telling him all that he had wanted to hear for the last God knows how many months.

"When I was eighteen," he said, "I tried to kill someone."

It was as if an electric jolt had just passed through him, Trowa's surprise was so great. "_You_?" He couldn't help but scoff. Of course, he'd known that Quatre had done something, but attempted murder? Out of the corner of his eye he saw Quatre nod.

"He'd murdered my father. I wanted him…dead. I just can't explain it any more clearly than that. I know it's awful, I knew it at the time, but -- that just didn't matter. He had to die. But I didn't kill him. My friend, Wufei… It makes me sick thinking about it… My friend Wufei managed to get the gun away from me, but while we were occupied Khushrenada managed to get a weapon…and in the end it was Wufei who shot him. He was trying to defend us. It should have been me."

Trowa didn't say anything. There was a pressure building inside his chest, making his ribs ache, beating against his insides. He tried to smother it, but that made it push harder until it burst out of him in something that sounded eerily like laughter. "It's never you, is it. You're always the one just standing there."

"That's certainly what the court thought," Quatre replied quietly. "I think one of Father's associates bribed the jury to think just that. Anyway, Wufei was sentenced to twenty years in prison. I just got sent to a fancy counseling center. They thought about tacking on an eighteen month sentence, but it didn't happen. Outrageous, huh?"

There was a sign for the airport. "Where are we going?" Quatre asked.

Suddenly his cell phone began to ring.

"Phoenix," Trowa told him over the noise.

Quatre nodded, fished the phone out of his pocket, and answered it. Trowa noticed the sidelong look in his direction as Quatre listened to whatever was being said then replied, "Actually I'm already on my way there. But listen -- it's not what we thought. Not at all. …I know. …Give me a call when you arrive. Bring - yes. Thanks. …See you later." He hung up. Put the phone in the cup holder.

Trowa stared at him, suddenly on guard. "What was that about?"

Quatre glanced at him and laughed nervously. "You're very good at that," he said, "intimidating people just by looking at them. That was my friend Heero calling to tell me that he traced the call to my office back to Phoenix. He and Wufei are going to meet me there. You're right, you see -- this _has_ gone on long enough."

"And you're going to do _what_, exactly, to put a stop to it? Kill some more people? That's clever. Stop the car, Quatre. Pull over and call the police. Do it now, before you make things even worse."

Quatre's fingers were white gripping the steering wheel. "The police can't get involved. Not with -"

"_Yes_ they can! Call Sally Po -- see what happens."

"I'm _not_ going to betray my friend! I'm sorry, Trowa, but it's not happening."

Trowa reached over and grabbed Quatre's arm, digging his fingers roughly into Quatre's bicep. He couldn't remember ever having been so angry. He was almost snarling like some crazed animal. "You're not going to Phoenix until Sally or someone else on the police force is informed about this. If you don't call her, I will. _I_ trust her to arrest only the right people."

Quatre's eyes never left the road, but Trowa could see his face twisting its way through the gamut of emotions -- anger, fear, sorrow -- 'til finally it came to the one he was hoping for -- resignation. "Fine," he whispered, "you call her. But _only_ her."

Trowa released Quatre's arm and took the phone instead. He stopped just as he was about to begin dialing. "I don't know the whole story."

"Oh. Right." Quatre let out a ragged breath. This trip was obviously costing him a lot. "Well I couldn't just let Wufei rot in a cell for twenty years, so I found help. Heero Yuy, the man you talked to earlier this afternoon, the one who just called. He's a true genius, anything to do with computers or hacking…my father would have loved to get his hands on him. Anyway. I met him, believe it or not, because he was looking for work outside of Japan. The government there kept trying to recruit him, and frankly I don't blame them. Well. He's the one who got Wufei out of jail and who's made it impossible for anyone to find him the last eight years. Wrought havoc in just about all of the city's databases." A tiny grin appeared on Quatre's face, but it quickly vanished.

"I went to the hospital they sent me to. I got out. The board of directors debated whether or not it would be appropriate for me to claim my inheritance and take Father's position in the company given my mental history, but in the end they decided in my favor. And several years later, I began to be blackmailed. Treize Khushrenada, the man I…_tried_ to kill, had a daughter. Mariemaia. Her mother had already died, and so she went to live with her grandfather after Khushrenada's death."

Suddenly the car began to slow. Quatre was pulling over into the shoulder. Trowa saw that he was shaking. "I thought all this time that it was her," he muttered. "That's why I was giving in, because…because how could I say no to her? _I took away her father_! But it wasn't her. All this time, it's been her grandfather…and I never knew…I never thought to _check_…and I've been sending him money…and he's been using it to import heroin. Today he died too. He overdosed. Because he used the money I sent to buy himself drugs. And I've taken away the last of her family. I've screwed up so bad. I can't believe I've screwed up this bad… That's why she… I'm so sorry, Trowa. I'm so sorry."

_She killed my parents to get revenge_, Trowa understood. "But that's stupid. They weren't even your parents."

"I know," Quatre whispered, resting his head on the steering wheel. "She just wants to hurt anyone close to me any way she can. She's just a kid, Trowa, but she's got a lot of desperate addicts depending on her family for heroin. She can probably get them to do whatever she wants."

That was enough to send a shiver down Trowa's spine. He flipped open the phone and dialed Sally's number.


	12. Part Twelve

**Part Twelve**

Quatre came with him to the hospital. Trowa didn't want him to, but as soon as they had emerged from the airport, Quatre had hailed a cab and told the driver to take them there. The drive was spent in blissful silence -- there were only a few moments when Quatre seemed about to say something -- but, to Trowa's immense relief, he always stopped just short of opening his mouth. The last thing Trowa wanted to do right now was speak or listen, especially not with Quatre. Mercifully the plane hadn't had two seats together, so they hadn't spoken since Trowa got off the phone with Sally, hours earlier.

But he could still feel Quatre's eyes on him. They hadn't gone away, and they felt like they could burn holes straight through him. He didn't bother to look over, but he could picture them nonetheless: brimming with remorse, pity, apologies. A good right hook would take care of that -- Trowa's hand itched to give it a try. He balled it into a fist, but only to shove it in his pocket, out of temptation's way. _He'd probably just sit there and take it, like some damn dog_, he thought spitefully and tried to ignore the guilt that rose up like bile as soon as he'd thought it.

That was why he didn't want to talk to Quatre. They had both helped to cause his parents' murder. Trowa couldn't forgive himself for that, nor could he forgive Quatre when the news was still so fresh it hadn't finished sinking in. But with his boss positively _exuding_ apologies, already racked with guilt for what he'd done wrong, Trowa's moral compass was spinning out of control. After all, he'd grown up being taught that when people are truly sorry you forgive them. It was almost laughable, the spiral he was whirling down. Angry. Guilty. Can't forgive. Should forgive. Can't forgive. Guilty. Angry. _Jesus!_ Things would just be so much easier if Quatre were an asshole. Then he wouldn't care about Trowa or his parents, and Trowa would be free to be angry and hateful for as long as he needed to be, without hurting anyone more than they deserved.

So, basically, he drank in the silence, relishing every second he didn't have to deal with the mess in front of him.

When they arrived, the hospital, too, was quiet so late at night. Trowa's shoes squeaked over the tiles as he walked, Quatre following politely behind. The nurse at reception gave him directions to the morgue. It was down. Practically the basement. Practically the fucking boiler room. Safe and quiet out of everybody's way. Trowa was glad it was dark outside, it meant he didn't notice the lack of windows down here so much, but he still felt claustrophobic, especially with Quatre so close behind him. Eyes scorching his back.

There was Catherine, asleep in a chair, the swinging double doors to the morgue beside her. The squeak of Trowa's shoes woke her up. She smiled when she saw him, although her eyes were still red. "Come here," she ordered him, standing up and holding her arms out to him. Trowa forced a tiny smile and let Cathy fuss over him; he knew it would comfort her. She stroked his hair and whispered in his ear, "It's going to be okay," as if he had been the one crying over their loss. How surreal.

"Can I see them?"

Cathy sighed and pulled back. "One of the technicians will have to open up the freezer. But Trowa, it's…not very nice." Her eyes drifted sideways to Quatre. He knew she recognized him, but she was too polite to let on that she did.

"This is Quatre Winner," he introduced them with a sigh, "and this is my sister, Catherine. I'll be right back." He went through the doors into the morgue, letting Catherine see the coldness between him and Quatre for herself and draw her own conclusions.

It was cooler in here, and it reeked of chemicals which Trowa knew were only covering an even worse smell. A woman with dark hair pulled tightly back from her face looked up from her work at his arrival and asked stiffly, "Can I help you?"

"I'd like to see Michael and Elizabeth Barton."

"Oh. You're the brother, huh? Right over here." She led him over to the wall of freezers and unlocked two, pulling out the shelves the bodies rested on and then exposing their faces. "I'll give you a minute. Just let me know when you're ready."

"I won't be long." He just wanted to see them. See what that girl had done to them. What he and Quatre had done to them. _You shouldn't fear death, Trowa_. That's what his father had said to him. And now here he was, with a tag on his big toe. Name. Date. Cause of death. Car accident, Trowa read and snorted. Accident, right. The bodies been cleaned up, Trowa could see that, but there was no disguising the fact that they had been badly injured. It was a pretty gruesome sight, almost enough to make Trowa's stomach turn. Burns. Cuts. Gross. Was it strange that he didn't feel as if he'd ever known these people? He _knew_ his sister -- they'd grown up as friends as well as siblings. But these people, they felt alien. He'd grown up with them, too, but…who were they? He didn't know. He never would. It bothered him, one some level, but on another Trowa had always known it, already accepted it, and begun to move on. That bothered him, too. How many strange circles was his mind going to run in tonight?

He'd seen what he came for.

"I'm finished," he announced, and stood back while the technician put the bodies away, saying a quick, silent goodbye to his parents.

Quatre was talking to someone on a payphone down the hall when Trowa came back out. He tried to hear what was being said, but was too far away. Catherine noticed and gave him a stern look. "He's been making phone calls since you went in there. You going to tell me what's going on?"

It was what killed their parents. She had a right to know. "You won't like it," he warned, flopping gracelessly into a chair, exhausted. Cathy sat next to him, and listened with growing agitation to his brief breakdown of events. "I got him to promise not to do anything until Sally Po -- she's that police officer -- gets here. She said she'd be down by tomorrow morning."

"And then what are you going to do?" Disapproval oozed out of his sister's every pore.

"I don't know," he said firmly, and that was that. Down the hall, Quatre hung up the phone and began coming back towards them.

"I've booked a hotel room," he announced.

Catherine sent Trowa a sidelong glance, then shocked him by saying, "No, you should stay with me. There's enough room." Two equally surprised faces stared at her, but Cathy just crossed her arms and stared right back. "Trowa's explained to me some of what's been going on," she said to Quatre, "and I don't like the idea of your being without supervision. Either of you. I want you both where I can keep my eye on you."

Trowa was about to protest, but Quatre nodded his head in submission before he could get a word out. And once Quatre had agreed, what could he do? It was Catherine's invitation and Catherine's trailer they'd be staying in. But he knew it was going to be a nightmare. (And he was right.)

There was enough room at Catherine's -- but barely. Trowa slept on the floor in Catherine's room, while Quatre took the pullout bed in the couch that Trowa was used to during his rare visits to Catherine's trailer. It was a long night with little sleep, and at about half past seven the next morning Quatre's cell phone began going off, waking all of them up. He went into the bathroom to talk, and Catherine grimly got up and started making breakfast, somewhat covering the conversation, but Trowa caught enough of it as he folded the bed back into the sofa to know that it was Sally on the other end of the line. Quatre came out a moment later to confirm just that.

"I told her where we are," he said with a sigh. "They're taking a cab. She's brought Duo with her." The scowl on his face let Trowa know exactly what Quatre thought of that, and he almost smirked. "I'm just going to call Heero, then; and when everyone's here I guess we'll sort out what to do."

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, the three of them had eaten breakfast and washed up. Several plates covered with plastic wrap waited for their "guests," who Catherine presumed would be hungry when they arrived. Trowa went outside to wait for them, in case they couldn't pick out Catherine's trailer from the other circus performers' from Quatre's description. Quatre gave him some money to use to pay the cab fare.

Sally and Duo were the first to arrive, their cab pulling up just outside the parking lot the circus had taken over. Sally grinned at him and waved sleepily as he walked over to pay the driver. Duo just looked pissed off. Not that Trowa could blame him.

He showed them where to go, and just a few minutes later a cheap rental car pulled into the parking lot, and out stepped two people whom, Trowa realized with a start, he recognized. Well, he knew that he'd recognize Wufei, who was stepping out of the passenger side of the car, looking remarkably well kept for someone who had apparently been some kind of fugitive the last few years. But he had also seen the man sliding out from behind the steering wheel. That was the only guy in a suit that he had ever seen go into Quatre's office without having something thrown at his head. Now he knew why.

Suddenly Trowa felt incredibly ridiculous. He didn't belong here with these guys. But he couldn't leave; they had seen him when they'd driven in and were coming right over to him. "Trowa, right?" Wufei called to him, not exactly rude but not all that pleasant either. "Quatre here?"

"Yeah." Trowa smothered his feeling of foolishness behind a sheet of coolness, damned if he was going to let these two people his own age get one up on him. He knew how to act; he'd have never managed to get out in the ring in a clown suit if he didn't know how to disguise himself. "He's right inside."

He led the way back to Cathy's trailer -- which had gotten very cramped by this point, quite enough to make Trowa wish he could stay outside, far away from all these people. But as Heero and Wufei were walking in, he noticed that they seemed to feel equally wary of the crowd. Strangely, that put him slightly more at ease -- at least this was a place he knew, even if it had been overrun by strangers. Sally and Duo were parked on the two-person sofa with plates in their laps, Quatre was perching on a stool he'd dragged over from the kitchen, and Catherine wasn't visible. Trowa suspected she was listening to everything at her bedroom door, though -- although it would be practically impossible for her not to hear everything anyway. Trowa went and sat on the floor across from the sofa, and Heero and Wufei filed awkwardly after him. It felt like he was walking out onto the battlefield, each side staring down the other until given the order to fire.

There was silence.

Trowa stared expectantly at Quatre, and one by one everyone else began to do the same, until finally he cleared his throat and said, "Let me introduce you all to each other. This is Chang Wufei and Heero Yuy, my two greatest friends and allies, who have been helping me with this…problem since it started. Trowa Barton and Duo Maxwell work for me. Both of them became inadvertently involved in this a few months ago when we were in a car accident. And this is Sally Po, a police officer from back home. I think I've told you all about each other before, but this should be your first meeting face-to-face."

"Yeah, hi," Sally jumped in quickly, and waved from across Catherine's dinky fold-out coffee table. "So, look, I just wanted to let you all know that my boss officially closed Mr. Winner's case a couple of weeks ago, so I'm just here because I was invited, and as a citizen, for personal reasons. Not to arrest anyone. Not that I could anyway, we're _way_ outside of my jurisdiction."

Trowa felt the tension that drained out of Heero and Wufei at Sally's words. But he wasn't sure if it was because they were simply reassured that they wouldn't immediately be carted off to jail or if it was because they now felt they could do more illegal crap and get away with it. Duo caught his eye, and Trowa knew he was thinking the same thing. Trusting was clearly one thing this group was not.

"So, Quatre," Wufei spoke up suddenly, breaking through the silence that had once again settled over the group. "I'm sure I'm not the only one who's noticed that you've been rather vague over the phone the last couple of times we've spoken. Now that we're face-to-face I'd like to know _exactly_ what's happened that's so important in the last two days and what you're planning to do. Lord knows we've all waited long enough catering to that kid's wishes."

Quatre nodded. "I'm sorry for making you wait so long to hear this, Wufei, I know you were impatient. I just felt it had to be done in person. I guess Heero told you that Miss Khushrenada called me at the office?"

"Of course," Wufei half growled and half sighed. "That's why he was able to finally pinpoint the brat's location. The reason we're all here, I _assume_."

"Yes and no, I'm afraid." A tired grin played at the corners of Quatre's mouth, and seeing Wufei's rising aggravation he teasingly added, "I know, I'm being vague again, I'm sorry." Then, sobering, he filled Wufei and Heero in on the specifics about Mariemaia's phone call, which, of course, Trowa already knew. "She's furious, obviously," Quatre summed up, "and rightly so. I've caused far too many deaths -- I'm not even middle aged yet, God help me! I need to speak to her, apologize, try to stop this madness before -" Quatre cut himself off abruptly, looking at Trowa. It was the first time their eyes had met since Trowa had found out about his parents' murders. The intensity of Quatre's stare caught him off guard, trapped him, cut him off from the rest of the group. The universe had suddenly narrowed to one pair of brilliantly blue eyes.

"Before what?" Wufei asked in the distance.

"Do you want them to know?" Quatre asked him quietly. "It's your decision to make."

And Trowa was suddenly thrown back into the real world again. Leaning back against the television stand he replied, "You can tell them," and kept his voice carefully neutral as he said it.

"What, for God's sake?" Duo demanded loudly.

"Mariemaia _wasn't_ my blackmailer," Quatre reiterated, "but she isn't rational right now. She's upset and confused, and she's not having any problem picking up where her grandfather left off. Trowa's parents were killed in car wreck yesterday, and we think Mariemaia must have hired the person who caused it."

"Are you kidding?" Wufei demanded hotly at the same time that Sally jumped to her feet, almost dumping her plate to the floor. "Quatre, the girl doesn't need a talking to, she needs some sense knocked into her. I keep telling you that the only way to get this shit to stop is to show her why you shouldn't be messed with!"

"Why the _fuck_ didn't you tell me this yesterday, Barton!" Sally snapped.

"Because I was more interested in getting you here to keep an eye on these guys than in getting her arrested," Trowa said softly, keeping his eyes trained on the refrigerator magnet to the left of Sally's head. If he looked at her he might just lose it.

"Man, you are taking this _way_ too calmly," Duo muttered, giving him a very strange look. "What the hell do Trowa's parents have to do with Quatre anyway?"

"Mariemaia is trying to lash out at me however she can. Hurting those close to me was her simplest option." Quatre shrugged expressively.

"_Shit_," Sally spat as she sank back down into her seat, also glaring at Trowa with some bizarre mixture of anger and pity. "This changes everything. If this girl -- whoever she is -- has been involved in a murder, the local police need to know about it. I can't believe you don't feel the same way, Trowa. And what about your sister?"

Trowa had to agree. He couldn't believe it either. But what could he say?

"Mariemaia doesn't deserve to be arrested," Quatre retorted vehemently. "If anyone ought to be turned over to the police, it's me. I'm to blame for what Mariemaia did. She's a victim here, too, can't you see that? She's not some evil monster, she's just a confused girl who needs someone to help her see what's right. She needs someone to look after her. Can't you just let me talk to her and see what happens?"

"_Look_," Sally growled, "I understand that a little rule breaking can be necessary from time to time, but this is _serious_. You're honestly okay with this?" she demanded of Trowa incredulously.

He really wasn't sure what to say in response. _Honestly_, he wasn't sure how the hell he felt about it anymore. "Quatre thinks she just needs to be talked down," he sighed. "I don't know. How old is she?"

"Seventeen," Quatre told him.

"So she's still just a kid. If he gets through to her like he thinks he can…is it really worth throwing her life away in jail? If she…repents, truly… I think we should at least try it."

"I know where she's living and I can get us in the building," Heero contributed, the first he'd spoken since arriving. "You're not going to stop us from at least doing that."

"I think we should at least try before having her arrested," Trowa repeated.

Sally scowled back and forth between him and Heero. Trowa could tell she was trying to figure out whether or not to go with them and keep an eye on things or just call in to the local cops and bust their asses. He wasn't sure what she'd choose, but he knew her conscience would be bothering her either way. His was going to as well. And Duo -- he just looked like he couldn't believe any of this was happening. But Trowa was sure he'd end up going along with Sally -- she was the cop after all. "I don't like being manipulated like this," she finally growled. "So you assholes better not _ever_ try anything like this again. I'll go along with you for tonight, and tonight _only_, and then I'll make up my own mind from there about what to do next."

"Thank you, Ms. Po," Quatre sighed, sounding honestly grateful -- and more than a little surprised.

"So what's the address and what time are we meeting there?" Sally continued, pointedly ignoring Quatre's thanks.

* * *

Two more uncomfortable conversations dominated the rest of Trowa's day before that fateful evening. The first one was with Duo after everyone else had taken off, Sally having taken a cab back to their hotel and telling Duo to meet her back there when he was ready. Duo had declared that he wanted to see the circus while they were here, so Trowa was stuck showing him around since he still hadn't seen Catherine.

Naturally, the first destination so far as Trowa was concerned was going to be the lion cages. He hadn't seen Ol' Bozo in ages. The smell of manure wafted through the air to greet them as they made their way over, causing Duo to wrinkle his nose in disgust and Trowa to grin ruefully. It was always a shock to come back to the circus and realize that there were things about it that he had missed while he was gone. A loud roar suddenly sounded as they rounded the big top and the cages came into view. Obviously Ol' Bozo had noticed their approach.

"Holy shit," Duo breathed at the sight of the lion butting his head up against the bars of his cage and roaring. Trowa knew it was just a friendly hello, but to anyone unaccustomed to the big cats the display was sure to be threatening. And he wasn't about to soothe Duo's nerves, either. That was what the circus was all about, after all.

"Holy _shit_," Duo repeated when they were up close and personal

"Hey, big guy," Trowa murmured in greeting, letting the familiarity of his old friend relax him away from all of the last few months' trials. He reached into the cage and rubbed his hand deep into Ol' Bozo's mane. Yeah, this was what he needed right now. Too bad Duo couldn't shut up and let him enjoy it.

"Fuck, man, he lets you do that?" He was hanging back a pace and looking a little paler than usual, but not letting that stop him from getting on Trowa's case. When Trowa's hand remained attached to the rest of his arm, he took a hesitant step forward. "You think he'd let me touch him?"

Trowa snorted. "Highly unlikely."

He allowed himself a moment's satisfaction at the huffy look on Duo's face, then reached into the covered bucket kept by the cages where extra meaty treats were kept. "You can try giving him this, though."

Duo lifted a very skeptical eyebrow, but took the food and tossed it into the cage, where Ol' Bozo greedily devoured it off the ground. Duo looked disgusted, and wiped his palm off on his jeans.

Trowa allowed himself to smirk, just a little bit, before sticking his hands back in his pockets and leaning back against Ol' Bozo's cage. "So what did you want to talk to me about?" he sighed. Might as well get on with it or they'd be out there all day, he figured.

Duo looked a little surprised. "What makes you think there's anything?"

"Well it's pretty obvious you're not much of a circus fan, so why else would you have stayed?"

"Yeah, okay, you caught me," Duo snickered.

"So what is it?"

Duo rolled his eyes up towards the sky, as if he thought it was about to start raining, but the sun was shining. "How you holding up?" he finally asked.

Trowa glanced down to where Ol' Bozo was nipping pointedly at his hand and obligingly scratched under the lion's chin. "Fine," he replied shortly. It wasn't a subject he was ready to get into for a few years yet.

"Heh. Right," Duo scoffed. "Look, Tro, I know you and me haven't exactly gotten close over the last few months, but there are a few things I want to tell you. You don't need to answer me or anything but I think you should think about this. I have seen the way you look at Quatre, all right, and I also know the way he looks at you. And I just want to make sure that this whole thing today -- you're being so willing to pass on the cops and all -- it isn't just because of the way you feel about Q. Frankly, it's none of his fucking business whether you want to press charges against your parents' murderer, is it? Don't just do this for him, do it for you, you know what I'm saying?"

Trowa managed to swallow around the huge mound that had suddenly formed in his throat and chest. This was not something he wanted to hear. "Anything else?" he asked gruffly.

"Eh, not really. Only, I was wondering. See, Sally finally started finding all this shit out when she began combing through the old paper police files, not just the computerized ones -- that's what I was gonna tell you about yesterday, remember, before you blew me off? But there were a couple of details missing, and seeing how you got the story straight from the horse's mouth, I thought you might know 'em."

"Like what?"

"Like _why_ Khushrenada killed Quatre's dad?"

Trowa frowned. "No, he didn't tell me that," he replied. Apparently, there were still a few mysteries about his boss that remained to be solved.

* * *

The lions having been quite enough of the circus for Duo, he headed home shortly after their (somewhat disturbing) conversation. Trowa gratefully went back to his sister's trailer, hoping to grab a nap before that night. He was delayed, however, by the sight of his sister sitting at the counter waiting for him. He almost -- _almost_ -- groaned aloud at the sight, knowing that another unpleasant conversation was coming his way, but managed to restrain himself at the last second.

"I don't want you going tonight," she said bluntly. "It's a stupid idea."

"It is a stupid idea," he agreed, "but I've made up my mind."

"These people are psychos and lawbreakers, Trowa! I don't want you getting mixed up with them!" Apparently Quatre wasn't in the trailer. Bold as Catherine was, she wouldn't be that blunt if she knew he was in earshot. "You're going to end up in major trouble. What happens if that kid doesn't want to be talked down, huh? What happens if she tries to kill you too? Am I supposed to bury _three_ bodies this month? You just expect me to sit here and accept that or something?"

"Cathy, calm down. Sally will be there to make sure things don't get out of hand."

"_That's_ supposed to reassure me! She's as idiotic as the rest of you -- a cop refusing to arrest a criminal. You're acting so selfish, Trowa. This girl killed our parents. Do you get what that means! Why can't you let the police deal with her?"

"Because…I promised." Was it only that? Or was there something more still hanging over him? Some stupid desire to take the law into his own hands and play sheriff?

"You promised. Yeah. Some comfort that will be to me when you're dead. Or rotting in prison for the rest of your life."

"And what if it works out?"

"Yeah. What then, Trowa? Have you thought about that either? Are you even planning to stick around for your parents' funeral before skipping out with your crazy new friends? What on Earth do you think you're _doing_?" She slumped, face in her hands, angry and crying. "You're acting so strange. I don't think I know you anymore."

That was almost enough to make Trowa change his mind. He came so close to telling his sister that he would stay there with her. But something just wouldn't let him do it. He walked around to her and put his hands on her shoulders, but he didn't say the words she wanted to hear. All he said was, "I promise, I'll come to the funeral."


	13. Part Thirteen and Epilogue

_A/N:_ Unless you're itching to know about the cause of the tiff between Winner Sr. and Treize, the epilogue isn't really necessary to read. I was originally planning to include that info in the body of the fic itself, but it just didn't seem to work anywhere! So there's a couple of extra paragraphs wrapping up that and a couple of other minor loose ends. There's just a little more I want to say here, but feel free to skip ahead to the fic (I'll pause to give you the opportunity). Right. Endings are not my strong suit, but I have done my best to keep this one in character with the rest of the story _and_ have it end the way I want it to -- so I very much hope this won't be a disappointment to anyone! But if it is, I await your critique. :) Finally, as regards other ficcage, I've just (read: several months ago) completed my (totally bizarre!) first lemon, and a T/Q one at that. Obviously I can't post it here, but if anyone's interested in reading it just let me know somehow and I'll be glad to send you a copy. Thanks for reading - and on with the show!

**Part Thirteen**

Quatre had gone out to rent a car. That's why Trowa and Catherine had been alone that afternoon. Now it was dark, and Quatre was driving with the headlights off, even though that wouldn't do much to hide them on the road -- the moon was full and there were plenty of streetlights.

The clock in the car read 9:30.

Trowa watched the houses on his side of the car slip quietly by, some with lights on in the windows, some totally dark. They were in one of the older neighborhoods, where the houses were nice, but starting to get a little worn down. Definitely either the bad part of a good neighborhood or the good part of a bad neighborhood, it was a little hard to tell. There weren't a whole lot of people on the streets, which was a little surprising, and the few that were out didn't seem to be doing anything more illegal than booze and cigarettes, which seemed unusual for the area around a supposed drug lord's house.

"That should be the place," Quatre said, pointing across the street as he drove past the house. The windows in the front were all dark, but Trowa could see some light on the backyard, so someone was obviously around. They went on for about a block more, then Quatre parked. A few blocks away, Trowa could hear some people laughing and talking loudly, probably drunk. The temperature had plummeted since the sun went down, and he pulled his jacket more tightly around his shoulders. Across from him, Quatre was rubbing his gloved hands together.

"Let's get this over with," Trowa muttered. Cathy's baleful stare as he had walked out of the trailer was still hanging over him, and he didn't want to push his luck with her -- who knew, she might just spitefully drive away while he was gone!

"Here come Sally and Duo."

He saw them. They were walking towards the house from the opposite direction that he and Quatre were. Duo stopped and leaned back against the low, slightly crumbly wall in front of the house, tapping his foot impatiently. Trowa came to a halt beside him.

"So you still wanna do this, huh? Not wised up yet?" Trowa just rolled his eyes. "Jesus, I wish those other bastards would hurry up. What're their names again? _Fuck_, this is ridiculous."

"Their names are Heero and Wufei, Duo," Quatre cut into the tirade, "and that's their car now. Please try to calm down; you shouldn't have to be here for more than half an hour."

"A half hour too long," Duo muttered under his breath, so only Trowa could hear him. "This has got to be the stupidest fucking idea anyone's ever had."

"Does anyone else think this place is a little too quiet?" Sally asked. "Like everyone around here knows there's something dangerous happening? I think something's up."

Quatre's eyes flashed in annoyance. "Look, Ms. Po, you and Duo don't need to be here if you don't want to. Go home if you're uncomfortable. I don't want to have forced you into this."

"Mr. Winner," Sally replied sardonically, knowing how he hated to be called that, "I am here entirely of my own volition; I'm simply trying to warn you of what my instincts are telling me: that we should exercise caution. Many years of experience in situations like these -- although, granted, on the other side of the fence -- have taught me to trust those instincts."

"Ready?" Heero asked.

Beside Trowa, Duo jumped. Although they had seen the car, Heero and Wufei had come up silently under the sound of Quatre and Sally's whispered debate.

"Yes," Trowa answered quickly, before anyone could decide to back out. Heero motioned them over the wall, an easy jump as it only came up to Trowa's hip. Wufei surveyed the house with distaste curling his lip.

"You'd think you'd have sent enough money over the years for them to have fixed this place up," he remarked snidely to Quatre as they approached the door. Well, they had at least invested in a security system -- a keypad with a red blinking light greeted them at the front door.

Quatre rang the doorbell, and to no one's surprise, there was no answer, despite the fact that there was clearly someone home. So they moved on with their plan. Heero punched something into the security system -- God only knew how he'd managed to get the code -- and the red light glowed green. Trowa, Quatre, and Sally slipped inside the house, while Heero, Wufei, and Duo went around to the back entrance.

Sally's hand kept slipping helplessly to her hip, where she didn't have a gun, having adamantly refused to let any of them bring even an unloaded weapon. Quatre had backed her on that point, but Wufei had challenged them, demanding to know what they were supposed to do if Mariemaia turned out to be hostile. The brilliant answer had been to bluff and run.

"The light was coming from upstairs," Sally whispered to them. "That's where she'll be if she's anywhere. We'll split up to try and find the stairs, then go up together. All right?"

Trowa ducked through the archway to his left to find himself in the kitchen. He breezed through it and found some stairs down to the basement, which he _definitely_ wasn't interested in, and then the dining room. He was halfway across it when he heard Sally shout, "Get out! Get out! Run!" from somewhere nearby.

He spun around, intending to find Quatre and do just that, when the light flipped on and he found himself, once more, face to face with the barrel of a very real gun. He stuck his hands in the air, and then someone from behind took them and twisted them behind his back. Something cold was being put on them. Handcuffs.

"You have the right to remain silent…" the person behind him started saying.

He was being arrested.

* * *

After the adrenaline wore off, the whole thing was pretty boring. Surprisingly so. He didn't see any of the others, so he had no idea if they had been caught too, but he wasn't really worried. So far as he knew, Wufei was the only one who had anything to worry about with the police. The rest of them would probably just get charged with trespassing, or breaking and entering at most. 

Once the police were satisfied that he didn't have anything illegal or stolen on him, that he wasn't high or drunk, and that he wasn't going to be anything other than politely distant and agreeable, they let him make his phone call for bail (he called Cathy, and left a message when she didn't pick up), and put him into a holding cell with some other losers for him to wait until they wanted to question him or Cathy arrived to pick him up.

What Trowa really wanted to know was whether or not Mariemaia had been arrested along with him, and possibly the others. What exactly had happened to bring the police to the girl's house in the first place? It was a little bizarre.

He mulled over the possibilities while waiting for something to happen. A few of the drunker people in there with him tried to get him to talk, but he ignored them. Eventually an officer came over to let him out.

"Your sister's here. Explained a few things to the Sergeant. He wants to talk to you both."

Trowa cringed, just a little bit. He had a feeling this was going to be a pain in the ass. And, as usual, he was right.

The officer led him back out through the station, then down a small side hallway where the more upper-crust officers had their offices. They stopped at one, the officer knocked once, then ushered Trowa inside. "Trowa Barton, Serge."

Catherine jumped up from one of the seats in front of the Sergeant's desk to give him a tight hug and a hard shake. "I told you not to go," she told him in a harsh whisper, and then Trowa knew. _She_'d called the police. Tipped them off. That's why they'd been there, just waiting. God, they'd been so stupid.

"Good evening, Mr. Barton. I'm Sergeant Nichol." The brown-haired man behind the desk stood up and came over to shake his hand. Now this was Trowa's idea of a police officer -- crisp uniform, earnest face, direct, professional-sounding address. How incredibly surreal. "Have a seat. We've got plenty to discuss. Dismissed," he told the other officer who had remained hovering in the doorway.

Warily, Trowa sat down. "Like what?" he wanted to know.

"Well, let's start with what I ought to charge you with. Officer Po, whom we arrested with you, and your sister let us know the circumstances which brought you to Miss Khushrenada's house." Sergeant Nichol shook his head. "That woman really ought to have her badge taken away for letting you do all this…but unfortunately that's not up to me."

"Who, exactly, did you manage to arrest?"

Nichol scowled at him. "We apprehended those of you who were in the house. Unfortunately, unless one of you is willing to divulge the location of your friends, we probably won't be able to find them on our own. They're not a terribly high priority, you see. So how about, Mr. Barton? Care to tell me where your pals would go to hide out?"

"I just might, if I knew."

"That's what I thought. Mr. Barton, why exactly were you in Miss Khushrenada's house this evening?"

"We wanted to talk to her."

"About what, exactly?"

"If you're planning to interrogate my brother any further, Sergeant, I demand that he have a lawyer present," Catherine cut in hotly. "I thought we were in here to discuss that girl, not Trowa's activities this evening." Trowa's eyes slid over to his sister, then back to Nichol. Clearly, the man didn't know _everything_ about the situation, after all. Probably, Catherine and Sally had just informed him about their suspicion about Mariemaia's involvement in his parents' death and left out all the stuff about Quatre's blackmail. That would make the most sense.

"We just wanted to talk to her," Trowa repeated. "About my parents. Nothing more nor less. In fact, that's why Sally Po was there, to make sure that it stayed that way."

"I see." Nichol glared at him, clearly still suspicious but without evidence for much. "Your sister informed the station this afternoon about your suspicion that Miss Khushrenada plotted your parents' accident and her other illicit activities. We placed her under arrest this afternoon for possession and sale of heroin and for murder. You and Ms. Bloom will no doubt be pleased to know that Miss Khushrenada has since been cleared of the latter charge."

Trowa's hands tightened convulsively around the armrests of his chair. It was a lucky thing he was sitting down, because after hearing that his limbs suddenly all felt like jelly.

"What?" Catherine gasped from beside him. "You mean she didn't have anything to do with it?"

"That's right. Your parents' car accident was just that. An accident."

"Quatre…" He didn't realize he'd said it until Catherine gave him a funny look. He swallowed. This was the strangest he had felt in a long time -- all of his insides were tight while his skin felt like it was about to melt right off him. "I need to speak with him," he whispered hoarsely.

"I haven't actually finished, Mr. Barton. I want to talk with you more about what you were doing this evening."

Trowa surged to his feet, and was stunned when his knees almost buckled beneath him. "I don't care," he snapped. "Let me see him."

"Look, can we please just have a minute?" Catherine said much more reasonably, also standing up and taking him by the elbow. "I think both of us need to collect ourselves. We'll just be out in the hall."

Without waiting for an answer, she briskly walked Trowa out of Nichol's office and farther down the hall, to niche in the wall which housed a water cooler and gave them the illusion of privacy. "Sit down," she urged him, but he didn't. She didn't push the point, just sidled up next to him and rested her head against his shoulder. "Hey. It's okay after all."

Trowa didn't answer, just tried to breathe normally. It was extraordinarily difficult. He was trembling, trembling. He couldn't stop shaking, his muscles didn't seem to be his to control. There was a strange sound that he couldn't quite place.

Catherine dug around in her purse and drew out a tissue, gently wiping his cheeks with it. It was then that Trowa realized he was crying. That high-pitched pathetic animal noise was him; he was whimpering. God, how disgusting, but it was beyond his control. "It's okay," Catherine whispered again, then laughed. It was slightly hysterical sounding. "They weren't murdered after all. It's all okay now. It's just the stress catching up with you. Pressure release. It had to happen sometime. Let it come, I'm here. I'll take care of you."

He closed his eyes and let her support part of his weight. All the time, he had a horrible picture of Quatre in his mind, doing exactly the same thing.

It took only a few minutes for Trowa to come back to himself, but that was quite long enough. His case of the shakes subsided quickly, and his breathing came easier quickly after that.

"You okay?" Cathy asked him in a whisper.

Trowa nodded. "I don't like what he does to me. It's like I've got him under my skin, even after all this."

"Yeah, I know. You know why, don't you?" He didn't answer, so she punched him in the shoulder. "It's because you're in love with him, jackass. It's the same way I feel about Anthony."

"You haven't seen him for years."

"That's exactly why being in love is so frustrating." Catherine snorted. Trowa deemed it tactful not to say anything more. His sister didn't exactly like to talk about Tony, but Trowa hadn't failed to notice that she hadn't taken off her wedding ring in the five years since he'd walked out the door. "Anyway," she finally said, "You ready to go back in there?"

* * *

In the end, the most important thing that Nichol had left to say was that the case against him, Quatre, and Sally was being transferred over to the police back home. In all likelihood, they'd be charged with trespassing, have to appear once or twice in court, and be fined. It could have been a hell of a lot worse. And Wufei, Heero, and Duo hadn't been caught -- and wouldn't, Trowa was certain. So long as they didn't meet up too blatantly until they got back home, everything would be fine. The person who stood to get in the most trouble was Sally, but the first time Trowa saw her after getting out of his meeting with the Sergeant, she assured him that she had a good enough record, and a good enough relationship with her chief, that things probably wouldn't be too bad once she explained her side of things (perhaps with just a couple of details missing or tweaked). 

As for the girl, she wasn't guilty of murder. She wasn't guilty of blackmail. All she _was_ guilty of was making an empty threat and drug dealing. And having a really shitty family. But she couldn't exactly be held accountable for that last one. Sally told Trowa that she'd probably be stuck in foster care for the six months she was on probation and until she turned eighteen. After that, there was no telling what would happen. But Quatre was being let in to talk to her, just like he wanted.

All of a sudden, things were being resolved.

Trowa wasn't sure he could handle it.

It was just too normal too fast -- things all of a sudden felt _so_ normal it was weird! The only pressure he remained under was that of making amends with Quatre and resolving himself to the fact that he had feelings he didn't want to have for his boss. And he'd been trying to do that for months. He'd thought that he'd finally gotten it under control, but it was like he'd told Catherine -- it was like Quatre was under his skin, out of sight but always there about to rip through the surface. It was frightening. He didn't like it. But he couldn't escape, and he couldn't stop it from happening.

He and Catherine took the bus home while Quatre was still with Mariemaia, leaving directions with Sally so she and Quatre could find the way for themselves when they were ready. Then he peeled off from his sister and went to sit by Ol' Bozo's cage for a while, just enjoying being by himself again for a while.

He wasn't sure exactly how long he sat there, feeling the sleeping lion's warmth on his back through the slats in the cage and the afternoon sunshine on his face, but it must have been some time. He was just starting to feel drowsy when a shadow fell over him and he glanced up. It was Quatre.

There was something different about him.

It took a second for Trowa to realize what it was. Then he understood that the person he was looking at was real, not one of Quatre's made up characters. This was actually Quatre. He couldn't help it -- he smiled.

Quatre smiled back, a tentative, almost shy, curve of his lips. "May I sit with you, Trowa?" he asked. At Trowa's nod, he too settled himself with his back resting against Ol' Bozo's back. For a little while they sat together in silence, but unlike all those times in Quatre's office, this was a cozy sort of quiet. Then Quatre said, "I'm sorry I put you through all this."

"You shouldn't. I put myself through most of it. I shouldn't have been so angry with you. It turns out I had no right to be."

"You had _every_ right to be -- you were right at every turn. But…I'm glad you're not anymore." Suddenly Quatre threw back his head and started to laugh. Bozo rumbled a warning from behind them. "I feel like a whole new person after all this!" Quatre laughed. "Oh, Trowa, this is the most wonderful thing that could have happened to me. This has been haunting me since high school, and suddenly it's finally -- _finally_! -- gone! I'm free again."

Trowa turned his head to see Quatre earnestly staring at him, his eyes bright with unshed tears. He caught Trowa's hand up in his own and said, "I can't thank you enough."

Trowa's breath froze in his throat. He couldn't say anything, even if there was anything _for_ him to say. Hundreds of remembered fragments of conversation came rushing back to him. Catherine…and Duo…and himself, in Quatre's office that day. Oh, God. Heat flooded through him. He wanted to pull away, but he couldn't. This surely couldn't be happening…

"Trowa, I wanted you to be the first to know. I've come to a decision. I'm giving up Winner Enterprises."

Wait.

Oh. Aha. This couldn't be happening because it wasn't.

The heat drained from Trowa's body, leaving him exhausted, disappointed, and cold in the setting sun. "What do you mean?" Trowa asked, somewhat breathlessly, not at all interested in the answer, but feeling he ought to say something at the juncture.

"When I saw Mariemaia, we agreed that it was the right thing for me to do. And I can't exactly say I'm all that disappointed." Another small smile in Trowa's direction. And Trowa suddenly realized that Quatre hadn't let go of his hand. "It means my life can go in the direction I want it to, for a change."

"You said…" Jeez, it was hard to talk. But Quatre got the gist of where he was heading.

"I've lied to you. A lot. I know. I've hidden things. I've hidden myself. I've been stupid in so many different ways. Look…I know I have no right to do this to you now, not when I've tried to manipulate you and use you. And I wouldn't ask, if I didn't think that it would hurt you just as badly as it would me if I didn't. Trowa, I'm not going to lie to you anymore, I promise. I'm frightened. And I think I love you."

Fuck-ing-hell. The blood just about froze in Trowa's veins hearing that said. He'd been wanting to hear it for ages, he hadn't even realized how much until now. But still. Did he even know Quatre after all this time? He knew the answer to that: Not a bit. Not the teensiest, tiniest bit.

"Does this mean that you're going to give me the chance to fall in love with you?" he asked. "Does this mean that I'm finally going to get to know you? Be privileged enough to have your trust? To know your secrets?"

Quatre smiled, nodded, and kissed him.

And, for now anyway, that was good enough for Trowa.

**Epilogue (The Loose Ends)**

Quatre waited until the new branch was ready to open to announce his resignation, and shocked the world still further by announcing that one Duo Maxwell would be taking things over from him. Even Trowa had been skeptical of that choice, but Quatre had explained that he wanted someone who would keep things going in the direction he wanted. He especially wanted someone who would keep Dorothy employed and whom he could convince to give Mariemaia Khushrenada a job if ever she came looking for one.

She had said, when last Quatre had spoken to her in the Phoenix police station, that she, unlike her grandfather, intended to never come begging for scraps from him. But he wanted something available, just in case.

The very worn copy of _Time_ magazine that Trowa had tried to throw out was still, somehow, in Quatre's possession, but not for long. The evening that Quatre announced his resignation, he tossed the magazine into the fireplace and lit it up. Trowa demanded to know the significance behind the damn thing, and he finally got the rest of the story behind the death of Quatre's father and Treize Khushrenada.

The article on genetics and cloning that Trowa had been scanning through the day of his job interview, it so happened, was based largely on some private research that Quatre's father had been funding -- with the leading scientist on the job being Treize Khushrenada. At the time, it had been very hush-hush and highly questionable research. Despite Winner Senior's keen interest in the project, it may have ruined his public image -- not to mention his company -- if word about it and his involvement had leaked out. And when Khushrenada threatened to do just that when he began to dislike the direction the team was taking, it led to an argument which led to Mr. Winner's untimely demise at the scientist's hand. The rest was history Trowa already knew.

And, thank goodness, it was finally behind them.

The legal matters had gone quite smoothly once they returned home, with hardly a whiff of media coverage. Trowa had no idea how Quatre had managed to pull that one off, but somehow he did it. Miss Khushrenada did not care to levy charges of trespassing against them, and there was not really much evidence for anything else. Heero had the access codes to the building, so they had not exactly broken in, and they had not stolen anything, and there was no proof of their being there for drugs, so in the end there was no problem, except for Une's relegating Sally to desk duty for three weeks.

As for their personal lives, Trowa had decided that he was quite head-over-heels for Quatre, and Quatre vice-versa. There had been a flock of tabloid headlines when the two of them moved into a comfortable house outside the city (complete with a small duck pond in the back), but this time that hadn't bothered either one of them. In fact, the game of spot-the-camera-and-give-it-a-show became rather fun. The only trouble was deciding what they wanted to do with themselves now that their jobs had both come to an end. What with Quatre having made enough money to retire years ago, they weren't under any financial obligations to work, only looking to stave off boredom and maybe fulfill a little corner of their souls that had gotten dusty over the years. Trowa rather intended to continue trying to design environmentally sound buildings, perhaps extending his talent into the low-cost housing arena; and as for Quatre, he was finally free to throw himself headlong into some of the charitable causes he'd been funding over the years.

They saw Heero and Wufei every so often, and eventually -- just as he got to know Quatre better -- Trowa grew to consider them friends. Relena came to wish them well, too, and Trowa suspected that her friendship with Quatre might just blossom again. Even Duo wasn't quite such a pain, now that Trowa knew where he and Quatre stood. Just so long as none of them came round _too_ often: he was still rather fond of his privacy, after all.

All in all, life was rather grand without any blackmail to bother them.

-end-


End file.
